Salman Rushdie
The Satanic Verses
For Marianne
Contents
I. The Angel Gibreel
II. Mahound
III. Ellowen Deeowen
IV. Ayesha
V. A City Visible but Unseen
VI. Return to Jahilia
VII. The Angel Azraeel
VIII. The Parting of the Arabian Seas
IX. A Wonderful Lamp
Satan, being thus confined to a vagabond, wandering, unsettled
condition, is without any certain abode; for though he has, in
consequence of his angelic nature, a kind of empire in the liquid waste
or air, yet this is certainly part of his punishment, that he is . . . without
any fixed place, or space, allowed him to rest the sole of his foot upon.
Daniel Defoe, _The History of the Devil_
I. The Angel Gibreel
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"To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens,
"first you have to die. Hoji! Hoji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first
one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first
you won't cry? How to win the darling's love, mister, without a sigh?
Baba, if you want to get born again . . ." Just before dawn one winter's
morning, New Year's Day or thereabouts, two real, full-grown, living
men fell from a great height, twenty-nine thousand and two feet,
towards the English Channel, without benefit of parachutes or wings,
out of a clear sky.
"I tell you, you must die, I tell you, I tell you," and thusly and so
beneath a moon of alabaster until a loud cry crossed the night, "To the
devil with your tunes," the words hanging crystalline in the iced white
night, "in the movies you only mimed to playback singers, so spare me
these infernal noises now."
Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he
sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-
stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the
almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures,
rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily
towards the sardonic voice. "Ohe, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-
ho, old Chumch." At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling
headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his
sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his
head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. "Hey, Spoono," Gibreel yelled,
eliciting a second inverted wince, "Proper London, bhai! Here we come!
Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or
lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby.
_Dharrraaammm!_ Wham, na? What an entrance, yaar. I swear: splat."
Out of thin air: a big bang, followed by falling stars. A universal
beginning, a miniature echo of the birth of time . . . the jumbo jet
_Bostan_, Flight AI-420, blew apart without any warning, high above
the great, rotting, beautiful, snow-white, illuminated city, Mahagonny,
Babylon, Alphaville. But Gibreel has already named it, I mustn't
interfere: Proper London, capital of Vilayet, winked blinked nodded in
the night. While at Himalayan height a brief and premature sun burst
into the powdery January air, a blip vanished from radar screens, and
the thin air was full of bodies, descending from the Everest of the
catastrophe to the milky paleness of the sea.
Who am I?
Who else is there?
The aircraft cracked in half, a seed-pod giving up its spores, an egg
yielding its mystery. Two actors, prancing Gibreel and buttony, pursed
Mr. Saladin Chamcha, fell like titbits of tobacco from a broken old
cigar. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats,
stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles,
disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups,
blankets, oxygen masks. Also -- for there had been more than a few
migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by
reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and
distinguishing moles upon their husbands' genitalia, a sufficiency of
children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its
ever reasonable doubts -- mingling with the remnants of the plane,
equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul,
broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mother tongues, violated
privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the
forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, _land_, _belonging_,
_home_. Knocked a little silly by the blast, Gibreel and Saladin
plummeted like bundles dropped by some carelessly open-beaked stork,
and because Chamcha was going down head first, in the recommended
position for babies entering the birth canal, he commenced to feel a low
irritation at the other's refusal to fall in plain fashion. Saladin
nosedived while Farishta embraced air, hugging it with his arms and
legs, a flailing, overwrought actor without techniques of restraint.
Below, cloud-covered, awaiting their entrance, the slow congealed
currents of the English Sleeve, the appointed zone of their watery
reincarnation.
"O, my shoes are Japanese," Gibreel sang, translating the old song into
English in semi-conscious deference to the uprushing host-nation,
"These trousers English, if you please. On my head, red Russian hat; my
heart's Indian for all that." The clouds were bubbling up towards them,
and perhaps it was on account of that great mystification of cumulus
and cumulo-nimbus, the mighty rolling thunderheads standing like
hammers in the dawn, or perhaps it was the singing (the one busy
performing, the other booing the performance), or their blast--delirium
that spared them full foreknowledge of the imminent . . . but for
whatever reason, the two men, Gibreelsaladin Farishtachamcha,
condemned to this endless but also ending angelic devilish fall, did not
become aware of the moment at which the processes of their
transmutation began.
Mutation?
Yessir, but not random. Up there in air-space, in that soft,
imperceptible field which had been made possible by the century and
which, thereafter, made the century possible, becoming one of its
defining locations, the place of movement and of war, the planet-
shrinker and power-vacuum, most insecure and transitory of zones,
illusory, discontinuous, metamorphic, -- because when you throw
everything up in the air anything becomes possible - way up there, at
any rate, changes took place in delirious actors that would have
gladdened the heart of old Mr. Lamarck: under extreme environmental
pressure, characteristics were acquired.
What characteristics which? Slow down; you think Creation happens in
a rush? So then, neither does revelation . . . take a look at the pair of
them. Notice anything unusual? Just two brown men, falling hard,
nothing so new about that, you may think; climbed too high, got above
themselves, flew too close to the sun, is that it?
That's not it. Listen:
Mr. Saladin Chamcha, appalled by the noises emanating from Gibreel
Farishta's mouth, fought back with verses of his own. What Farishta
heard wafting across the improbable night sky was an old song, too,
lyrics by Mr. James Thomson, seventeen hundred to seventeen-forty-
eight. ". . . at Heaven's command," Chamcha carolled through lips
turned jingoistically red white blue by the cold, "arooooose from out
the aaaazure main." Farishta, horrified, sang louder and louder of
Japanese shoes, Russian hats, inviolately subcontinental hearts, but
could not still Saladin's wild recital: "And guardian aaaaangels sung
the strain."
Let's face it: it was impossible for them to have heard one another,
much less conversed and also competed thus in song. Accelerating
towards the planet, atmosphere roaring around them, how could they?
But let's face this, too: they did.
Down down they hurtled, and the winter cold frosting their eyelashes
and threatening to freeze their hearts was on the point of waking them
from their delirious daydream, they were about to become aware of the
miracle of the singing, the rain of limbs and babies of which they were a
part, and the terror of the destiny rushing at them from below, when
they hit, were drenched and instantly iced by, the degree-zero boiling of
the clouds.
They were in what appeared to be a long, vertical tunnel. Chamcha,
prim, rigid, and still upside-down, saw Gibreel Farishta in his purple
bush-shirt come swimming towards him across that cloud-walled
funnel, and would have shouted, "Keep away, get away from me," except
that something prevented him, the beginning of a little fluttery screamy
thing in his intestines, so instead of uttering words of rejection he
opened his arms and Farishta swam into them until they were
embracing head-to-tail, and the force of their collision sent them
tumbling end over end, performing their geminate cartwheels all the
way down and along the hole that went to Wonderland; while pushing
their way out of the white came a succession of cloudforms, ceaselessly
metamorphosing, gods into bulls, women into spiders, men into wolves.
Hybrid cloud-creatures pressed in upon them, gigantic flowers with
human breasts dangling from fleshy stalks, winged cats, centaurs, and
Chamcha in his semi-consciousness was seized by the notion that he,
too, had acquired the quality of cloudiness, becoming metamorphic,
hybrid, as if he were growing into the person whose head nestled now
between his legs and whose legs were wrapped around his long,
patrician neck.
This person had, however, no time for such "high falutions"; was,
indeed, incapable of faluting at all; having just seen, emerging from the
swirl of cloud, the figure of a glamorous woman of a certain age,
wearing a brocade sari in green and gold, with a diamond in her nose
and lacquer defending her high-coiled hair against the pressure of the
wind at these altitudes, as she sat, equably, upon a flying carpet.
"Rekha Merchant," Gibreel greeted her. "You couldn't find your way to
heaven or what?" Insensitive words to speak to a dead woman! But his
concussed, plummeting condition may be offered in mitigation
. . . Chamcha, clutching his legs, made an uncomprehending query:
"What the hell?"
"You don't see her?" Gibreel shouted. "You don't see her goddamn
Bokhara rug?"
No, no, Gibbo, her voice whispered in his ears, don't expect him to
confirm. I am strictly for your eyes only, maybe you are going crazy,
what do you think, you namaqool, you piece of pig excrement, my love.
With death comes honesty, my beloved, so I can call you by your true
names.
Cloudy Rekha murmured sour nothings, but Gibreel cried again to
Chamcha: "Spoono? You see her or you don't?"
Saladin Chamcha saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing. Gibreel
faced her alone. "You shouldn't have done it," he admonished her. "No,
sir. A sin. A suchmuch thing."
O, you can lecture me now, she laughed. You are the one with the high
moral tone, that's a good one. It was you who left me, her voice
reminded his ear, seeming to nibble at the lobe. It was you, O moon of
my delight, who hid behind a cloud. And I in darkness, blinded, lost, for
love.
He became afraid. "What do you want? No, don't tell, just go."
When you were sick I could not see you, in case of scandal, you knew I
could not, that I stayed away for your sake, but afterwards you
punished, you used it as your excuse to leave, your cloud to hide
behind. That, and also her, the icewoman. Bastard. Now that I am dead
I have forgotten how to forgive. I curse you, my Gibreel, may your life
be hell. Hell, because that's where you sent me, damn you, where you
came from, devil, where you're going, sucker, enjoy the bloody dip.
Rekha's curse; and after that, verses in a language he did not
understand, all harshnesses and sibilance, in which he thought he made
out, but maybe not, the repeated name _Al-Lat_.
He clutched at Chamcha; they burst through the bottom of the clouds.
Speed, the sensation of speed, returned, whistling its fearful note. The
roof of cloud fled upwards, the water-floor zoomed closer, their eyes
opened. A scream, that same scream that had fluttered in his guts when
Gibreel swam across the sky, burst from Chamcha's lips; a shaft of
sunlight pierced his open mouth and set it free. But they had fallen
through the transformations of the clouds, Chamcha and Farishta, and
there was a fluidity, an indistinctness, at the edges of them, and as the
sunlight hit Chamcha it released more than noise:
"Fly," Chamcha shrieked at Gibreel. "Start flying, now." And added,
without knowing its source, the second command: "And sing."
How does newness come into the world? How is it born?
Of what fusions, translations, conjoinings is it made?
How does it survive, extreme and dangerous as it is? What compromises,
what deals, what betrayals of its secret nature must it make to stave off
the wrecking crew, the exterminating angel, the guillotine?
Is birth always a fall?
Do angels have wings? Can men fly?
When Mr. Saladin Chamcha fell out of the clouds over the English
Channel he felt his heart being gripped by a force so implacable that he
understood it was impossible for him to die. Afterwards, when his feet
were once more firmly planted on the ground, he would begin to doubt
this, to ascribe the implausibilities of his transit to the scrambling of
his perceptions by the blast, and to attribute his survival, his and
Gibreel's, to blind, dumb luck. But at the time he had no doubt; what
had taken him over was the will to live, unadulterated, irresistible, pure,
and the first thing it did was to inform him that it wanted nothing to
do with his pathetic personality, that half-reconstructed affair of
mimicry and voices, it intended to bypass all that, and he found himself
surrendering to it, yes, go on, as if he were a bystander in his own mind,
in his own body, because it began in the very centre of his body and
spread outwards, turning his blood to iron, changing his flesh to steel,
except that it also felt like a fist that enveloped him from outside,
holding him in a way that was both unbearably tight and intolerably
gentle; until finally it had conquered him totally and could work his
mouth, his fingers, whatever it chose, and once it was sure of its
dominion it spread outward from his body and grabbed Gibreel
Farishta by the balls.
"Fly," it commanded Gibreel. "Sing."
Chamcha held on to Gibreel while the other began, slowly at first and
then with increasing rapidity and force, to flap his arms. Harder and
harder he flapped, and as he flapped a song burst out of him, and like
the song of the spectre of Rekha Merchant it was sung in a language he
did not know to a tune he had never heard. Gibreel never repudiated the
miracle; unlike Chamcha, who tried to reason it out of existence, he
never stopped saying that the gazal had been celestial, that without the
song the flapping would have been for nothing, and without the
flapping it was a sure thing that they would have hit the waves like
rocks or what and simply burst into pieces on making contact with the
taut drum of the sea. Whereas instead they began to slow down. The
more emphatically Gibreel flapped and sang, sang and flapped, the
more pronounced the deceleration, until finally the two of them were
floating down to the Channel like scraps of paper in a breeze.
They were the only survivors of the wreck, the only ones who fell from
_Bostan_ and lived. They were found washed up on a beach. The more
10
voluble of the two, the one in the purple shirt, swore in his wild
ramblings that they had walked upon the water, that the waves had
borne them gently in to shore; but the other, to whose head a soggy
bowler hat clung as if by magic, denied this. "God, we were lucky," he
said. "How lucky can you get?"
I know the truth, obviously. I watched the whole thing. As to
omnipresence and -potence, I'm making no claims at present, but I can
manage this much, I hope. Chamcha willed it and Farishta did what was
willed.
Which was the miracle worker?
Of what type -- angelic, Satanic -- was Farishta's song?
Who am I?
Let's put it this way: who has the best tunes?
These were the first words Gibreel Farishta said when he awoke on the
snowbound English beach with the improbability of a starfish by his
ear: "Born again, Spoono, you and me. Happy birthday, mister; happy
birthday to you."
Whereupon Saladin Chamcha coughed, spluttered, opened his eyes, and,
as befitted a new-born babe, burst into foolish tears.
Reincarnation was always a big topic with Gibreel, for fifteen years the
biggest star in the history of the Indian movies, even before he
"miraculously" defeated the Phantom Bug that everyone had begun to
believe would terminate his contracts. So maybe someone should have
been able to forecast, only nobody did, that when he was up and about
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again he would sotospeak succeed where the germs had failed and walk
out of his old life forever within a week of his fortieth birthday,
vanishing, poof!, like a trick, _into thin air_.
The first people to notice his absence were the four members of his
film-studio wheelchair-team. Long before his illness he had formed the
habit of being transported from set to set on the great D. W. Rama lot
by this group of speedy, trusted athletes, because a man who makes up
to eleven movies "sy-multaneous" needs to conserve his energies.
Guided by a complex coding system of slashes, circles and dots which
Gibreel remembered from his childhood among the fabled lunch-
runners of Bombay (of which more later), the chair-men zoomed him
from role to role, delivering him as punctually and unerringly as once
his father had delivered lunch. And after each take Gibreel would skip
back into the chair and be navigated at high speed towards the next set,
to be re-costumed, made up and handed his lines. "A career in the
Bombay talkies," he told his loyal crew, "is more like a wheelchair race
with one-two pit stops along the route."
After the illness, the Ghostly Germ, the Mystery Malaise, the Bug, he
had returned to work, easing himself in, only seven pictures at a time . .
. and then, justlikethat, he wasn't there. The wheelchair stood empty
among the silenced sound-stages; his absence revealed the tawdry
shamming of the sets. Wheelchairmen, one to four, made excuses for
the missing star when movie executives descended upon them in wrath:
Ji, he must be sick, he has always been famous for his punctual, no, why
to criticize, maharaj, great artists must from time to time be permitted
their temperament, na, and for their protestations they became the first
casualties of Farishta's unexplained hey-presto, being fired, four three
two one, ekdumjaldi, ejected from studio gates so that a wheelchair lay
abandoned and gathering dust beneath the painted coco-palms around
a sawdust beach.
12
Where was Gibreel? Movie producers, left in seven lurches, panicked
expensively. See, there, at the Willingdon Club golf links -- only nine
holes nowadays, skyscrapers having sprouted out of the other nine like
giant weeds, or, let's say, like tombstones marking the sites where the
torn corpse of the old city lay -- there, right there, upper-echelon
executives, missing the simplest putts; and, look above, tufts of
anguished hair, torn from senior heads, wafting down from high-level
windows. The agitation of the producers was easy to understand,
because in those days of declining audiences and the creation of
historical soap operas and contemporary crusading housewives by the
television network, there was but a single name which, when set above a
picture's title, could still offer a sure-fire, cent-per-cent guarantee of an
Ultrahit, a Smashation, and the owner of said name had departed, up,
down or sideways, but certainly and unarguably vamoosed . . .
All over the city, after telephones, motorcyclists, cops, frogmen and
trawlers dragging the harbour for his body had laboured mightily but
to no avail, epitaphs began to be spoken in memory of the darkened
star. On one of Rama Studios' seven impotent stages, Miss Pimple
Billimoria, the latest chilli-and-spices bombshell -- _she's no flibberti-
gibberti mamzel!, but a whir-stir-get-lost-sir bundla dynamite_ -- clad
in temple--dancer veiled undress and positioned beneath writhing
cardboard representations of copulating Tantric figures from the
Chandela period, -- and perceiving that her major scene was not to be,
her big break lay in pieces -- offered up a spiteful farewell before an
audience of sound recordists and electricians smoking their cynical
beedis. Attended by a dumbly distressed ayah, all elbows, Pimple
attempted scorn. "God, what a stroke of luck, for Pete's sake," she
cried. "I mean today it was the love scene, chhi chhi, I was just dying
inside, thinking how to go near to that fatmouth with his breath of
rotting cockroach dung." Bell-heavy anklets jingled as she stamped.
"Damn good for him the movies don't smell, or he wouldn't get one job
as a leper even." Here Pimple's soliloquy climaxed in such a torrent of
13
obscenities that the beedi-smokers sat up for the first time and
commenced animatedly to compare Pimple's vocabulary with that of
the infamous bandit queen Phoolan Devi whose oaths could melt rifle
barrels and turn journalists' pencils to rubber in a trice.
Exit Pimple, weeping, censored, a scrap on a cutting-room floor.
Rhinestones fell from her navel as she went, mirroring her tears. . . in
the matter of Farishta's halitosis she was not, however, altogether
wrong; if anything, she had a little understated the case. Gibreel's
exhalations, those ochre clouds of sulphur and brimstone, had always
given him -- when taken together with his pronounced widow's peak
and crowblack hair -- an air more saturnine than haloed, in spite of his
archangelic name. It was said after he disappeared that he ought to have
been easy to find, all it took was a halfway decent nose . . . and one week
after he took off, an exit more tragic than Pimple Billimoria's did much
to intensify the devilish odour that was beginning to attach itself to
that forsolong sweet-smelling name. You could .say that he had stepped
out of the screen into the world, and in life, unlike the cinema, people
know it if you stink.
_We are creatures of air, Our roots in dreams And clouds, reborn In
flight. Goodbye_. The enigmatic note discovered by the police in
Gibreel Farishta's penthouse, located on the top floor of the Everest
Vilas skyscraper on Malabar Hill, the highest home in the highest
building on the highest ground in the city, one of those double-vista
apartments from which you could look this way across the evening
necklace of Marine Drive or that way out to Scandal Point and the sea,
permitted the newspaper headlines to prolong their cacophonies.
FARISHTA DIVES UNDERGROUND, opined _Blitz_ in somewhat
macabre fashion, while Busybee in _The Daily_ preferred GIBREEL
FLIES coop. Many photographs were published of that fabled residence
in which French interior decorators bearing letters of commendation
from Reza Pahlevi for the work they had done at Persepolis had spent a
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million dollars recreating at this exalted altitude the effect of a Bedouin
tent. Another illusion unmade by his absence; GIBREEL STRIKES
CAMP, the headlines yelled, but had he gone up or down or sideways?
No one knew. In that metropolis of tongues and whispers, not even the
sharpest ears heard anything reliable. But Mrs. Rekha Merchant,
reading all the papers, listening to all the radio broadcasts, staying
glued to the Doordarshan TV programmes, gleaned something from
Farishta's message, heard a note that eluded everyone else, and took her
two daughters and one son for a walk on the roof of her high-rise home.
Its name was Everest Vilas.
His neighbour; as a matter of fact, from the apartment directly beneath
his own. His neighbour and his friend; why should I say any more? Of
course the scandal-pointed malice-magazines of the city filled their
columns with hint innuendo and nudge, but that's no reason for
sinking to their level. Why tarnish her reputation now?
Who was she? Rich, certainly, but then Everest Vilas was not exactly a
tenement in Kurla, eh? Married, yessir, thirteen years, with a husband
big in ball-bearings. Independent, her carpet and antique showrooms
thriving at their prime Colaba sites. She called her carpets _klims_ and
_kleens_ and the ancient artefacts were _anti-queues_. Yes, and she was
beautiful, beautiful in the hard, glossy manner of those rarefied
occupants of the city's sky-homes, her bones skin posture all bearing
witness to her long divorce from the impoverished, heavy, pullulating
earth. Everyone agreed she had a strong personality, drank _like a fish_
from Lalique crystal and hung her hat _shameless_ on a Chola Natraj
and knew what she wanted and how to get it, fast. The husband was a
mouse with money and a good squash wrist. Rekha Merchant read
Gibreel Farishta's farewell note in the newspapers, wrote a letter of her
own, gathered her children, summoned the elevator, and rose
heavenward (one storey) to meet her chosen fate.
15
"Many years ago," her letter read, "I married out of cowardice. Now,
finally, I'm doing something brave." She left a newspaper on her bed
with Gibreel's message circled in red and heavily underscored -- three
harsh lines, one of them ripping the page in fury. So naturally the
bitch-journals went to town and it was all LOVELY"S LOVELORN
LEAP, and BROKEN-HEARTED BEAUTY TAKES LAST DIVE. But:
Perhaps she, too, had the rebirth bug, and Gibreel, not understanding
the terrible power of metaphor, had recommended flight. _To be born
again, first you have to_ and she was a creature of the sky, she drank
Lalique champagne, she lived on Everest, and one of her fellow-
Olympians had flown; and if he could, then she, too, could be winged,
and rooted in dreams.
She didn't make it. The lala who was employed as gatekeeper of the
Everest Vilas compound offered the world his blunt testimony. "I was
walking, here here, in the compound only, when there came a thud,
_tharaap_. I turned. It was the body of the oldest daughter. Her skull
was completely crushed. I looked up and saw the boy falling, and after
him the younger girl. What to say, they almost hit me where I stood. I
put my hand on my mouth and came to them. The young girl was
whining softly. Then I looked up a further time and the Begum was
coming. Her sari was floating out like a big balloon and all her hair was
loose. I took my eyes away from her because she was falling and it was
not respectful to look up inside her clothes."
Rekha and her children fell from Everest; no survivors. The whispers
blamed Gibreel. Let's leave it at that for the moment.
Oh: don't forget: he saw her after she died. He saw her several times. It
was a long time before people understood how sick the great man was.
Gibreel, the star. Gibreel, who vanquished the Nameless Ailment.
Gibreel, who feared sleep.
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After he departed the ubiquitous images of his face began to rot. On the
gigantic, luridly coloured hoardings from which he had watched over
the populace, his lazy eyelids started flaking and crumbling, drooping
further and further until his irises looked like two moons sliced by
clouds, or by the soft knives of his long lashes. Finally the eyelids fell
off, giving a wild, bulging look to his painted eyes. Outside the picture
palaces of Bombay, mammoth cardboard effigies of Gibreel were seen to
decay and list. Dangling limply on their sustaining scaffolds, they lost
arms, withered, snapped at the neck. His portraits on the covers of
movie magazines acquired the pallor of death, a nullity about the eye, a
hollowness. At last his images simply faded off the printed page, so that
the shiny covers of _Celebrity_ and _Society_ and _Illustrated Weekly_
went blank at the bookstalls and their publishers fired the printers and
blamed the quality of the ink. Even on the silver screen itself, high
above his worshippers in the dark, that supposedly immortal
physiognomy began to putrefy, blister and bleach; projectors jammed
unaccountably every time he passed through the gate, his films ground
to a halt, and the lamp-heat of the malfunctioning projectors burned
his celluloid memory away: a star gone supernova, with the consuming
fire spreading outwards, as was fitting, from his lips.
It was the death of God. Or something very like it; for had not that
outsize face, suspended over its devotees in the artificial cinematic
night, shone like that of some supernal Entity that had its being at
least halfway between the mortal and the divine? More than halfway,
many would have argued, for Gibreel had spent the greater part of his
unique career incarnating, with absolute conviction, the countless
deities of the subcontinent in the popular genre movies known as
"theologicals". It was part of the magic of his persona that he
succeeded in crossing religious boundaries without giving offence.
Blue-skinned as Krishna he danced, flute in hand, amongst the
beauteous gopis and their udder-heavy cows; with upturned palms,
serene, he meditated (as Gautama) upon humanity's suffering beneath a
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studio-rickety bodhi-tree. On those infrequent occasions when he
descended from the heavens he never went too far, playing, for example,
both the Grand Mughal and his famously wily minister in the classic
_Akbar and Birbal_. For over a decade and a half he had represented, to
hundreds of millions of believers in that country in which, to this day,
the human population outnumbers the divine by less than three to one,
the most acceptable, and instantly recognizable, face of the Supreme.
For many of his fans, the boundary separating the performer and his
roles had longago ceased to exist.
The fans, yes, and? How about Gibreel?
That face. In real life, reduced to life-size, set amongst ordinary
mortals, it stood revealed as oddly un-starry. Those low-slung eyelids
could give him an exhausted look. There was, too, something coarse
about the nose, the mouth was too well fleshed to be strong, the ears
were long-lobed like young, knurled jackfruit. The most profane of
faces, the most sensual of faces. In which, of late, it had been possible
to make out the seams mined by his recent, near-fatal illness. And yet,
in spite of profanity and debilitation, this was a face inextricably mixed
up with holiness, perfection, grace: God stuff. No accounting for tastes,
that's all. At any rate, you'll agree that for such an actor (for any actor,
maybe, even for Chamcha, but most of all for him) to have a bee in his
bonnet about avatars, like much-metamorphosed Vishnu, was not so
very surprising. Rebirth: that's God stuff, too.
Or, but, then again . . . not always. There are secular reincarnations,
too. Gibreel Farishta had been born Ismail Najmuddin in Poona, British
Poona at the empire's fag-end, long before the Pune of Rajneesh etc.
(Pune, Vadodara, Mumbai; even towns can take stage names nowadays.)
Ismail after the child involved in the sacrifice of Ibrahim, and
Najmuddin, _star of the faith_; he'd given up quite a name when he
took the angel's.
Afterwards, when the aircraft _Bostan_ was in the grip of the hijackers,
and the passengers, fearing for their futures, were regressing into their
pasts, Gibreel confided to Saladin Chamcha that his choice of
pseudonym had been his way of making a homage to the memory of his
dead mother, "my mummyji, Spoono, my one and only Mamo, because
who else was it who started the whole angel business, her personal
angel, she called me, _farishta_, because apparently I was too damn
sweet, believe it or not, I was good as goddamn gold."
Poona couldn't hold him; he was taken in his infancy to the bitch-city,
his first migration; his father got a job amongst the fleet-footed
inspirers of future wheelchair quartets, the lunch-porters or
dabbawallas of Bombay. And Ismail the farishta followed, at thirteen, in
his father's footsteps.
Gibreel, captive aboard AI-420, sank into forgivable rhapsodies, fixing
Chamcha with his glittering eye, explicating the mysteries of the
runners' coding system, black swastika red circle yellow slash dot,
running in his mind's eye the entire relay from home to office desk,
that improbable system by which two thousand dabbawallas delivered,
each day, over one hundred thousand lunch-pails, and on a bad day,
Spoono, maybe fifteen got mislaid, we were illiterate, mostly, but the
signs were our secret tongue.
_Bostan_ circled London, gunmen patrolling the gangways, and the
lights in the passenger cabins had been switched off, but Gibreel's
energy illuminated the gloom. On the grubby movie screen on which,
earlier in the journey, the inflight inevitability of Walter Matthau had
stumbled lugubriously into the aerial ubiquity of Goldie Hawn, there
were shadows moving, projected by the nostalgia of the hostages, and
the most sharply defined of them was this spindly adolescent, Ismail
Najmuddin, mummy's angel in a Gandhi cap, running tiffins across the
town. The young dabbawalla skipped nimbly through the shadow-
crowd, because he was used to such conditions, think, Spoono, picture,
19
thirty-forty tiffins in a long wooden tray on your head, and when the
local train stops you have maybe one minute to push on or off, and
then running in the streets, flat out, yaar, with the trucks buses
scooters cycles and what-all, one-two, one-two, lunch, lunch, the dabbas
must get through, and in the monsoon running down the railway line
when the train broke down, or waist-deep in water in some flooded
street, and there were gangs, Salad baba, truly, organized gangs of
dabba-stealers, it's a hungry city, baby, what to tell you, but we could
handle them, we were everywhere, knew everything, what thieves could
escape our eyes and ears, we never went to any policia, we looked after
our own.
At night father and son would return exhausted to their shack by the
airport runway at Santacruz and when Ismail's mother saw him
approaching, illuminated by the green red yellow of the departing jet-
planes, she would say that simply to lay eyes on him made all her
dreams come true, which was the first indication that there was
something peculiar about Gibreel, because from the beginning, it
seemed, he could fulfil people's most secret desires without having any
idea of how he did it. His father Najmuddin Senior never seemed to
mind that his wife had eyes only for her son, that the boy's feet received
nightly pressings while the father's went unstroked. A son is a blessing
and a blessing requires the gratitude of the blest.
Naima Najmuddin died. A bus hit her and that was that, Gibreel wasn't
around to answer her prayers for life. Neither father nor son ever spoke
of grief. Silently, as though it were customary and expected, they buried
their sadness beneath extra work, engaging in an inarticulate contest,
who could carry the most dabbas on his head, who could acquire the
most new contracts per month, who could run faster, as though the
greater labour would indicate the greater love. When he saw his father
at night, the knotted veins bulging in his neck and at his temples,
Ismail Najmuddin would understand how much the older man had
20
resented him, and how important it was for the father to defeat the son
and regain, thereby, his usurped primacy in the affections of his dead
wife. Once he realized this, the youth eased off, but his father's zeal
remained unrelenting, and pretty soon he was getting promotion, no
longer a mere runner but one of the organizing muqaddams. When
Gibreel was nineteen, Najmuddin Senior became a member of the
lunch-runners' guild, the Bombay Tiffin Carriers' Association, and
when Gibreel was twenty, his father was dead, stopped in his tracks by a
stroke that almost blew him apart. "He just ran himself into the
ground," said the guild's General Secretary, Babasaheb Mhatre himself.
"That poor bastard, he just ran out of steam." But the orphan knew
better. He knew that his father had finally run hard enough and long
enough to wear down the frontiers between the worlds, he had run clear
out of his skin and into the arms of his wife, to whom he had proved,
once and for all, the superiority of his love. Some migrants are happy to
depart.
Babasaheb Mhatre sat in a blue office behind a green door above a
labyrinthine bazaar, an awesome figure, buddha-fat, one of the great
moving forces of the metropolis, possessing the occult gift of remaining
absolutely still, never shifting from his room, and yet being everywhere
important and meeting everyone who mattered in Bombay. The day
after young Ismail's father ran across the border to see Naima, the
Babasaheb summoned the young man into his presence. "So? Upset or
what?" The reply, with downcast eyes: ji, thank you, Babaji, I am okay.
"Shut your face," said Babasaheb Mhatre. "From today you live with
me." Butbut, Babaji ... "But me no buts. Already I have informed my
goodwife. I have spoken." Please excuse Babaji but how what why? "I
have _spoken_."
Gibreel Farishta was never told why the Babasaheb had decided to take
pity on him and pluck him from the futurelessness of the streets, but
after a while he began to have an idea. Mrs. Mhatre was a thin woman,
21
like a pencil beside the rubbery Babasaheb, but she was filled so full of
mother-love that she should have been fat like a potato. When the Baba
came home she put sweets into his mouth with her own hands, and at
nights the newcomer to the household could hear the great General
Secretary of the B T C A protesting, Let me go, wife, I can undress
myself. At breakfast she spoon-fed Mhatre with large helpings of malt,
and before he went to work she brushed his hair. They were a childless
couple, and young Najmuddin understood that the Babasaheb wanted
him to share the load. Oddly enough, however, the Begum did not treat
the young man as a child. "You see, he is a grown fellow," she told her
husband when poor Mhatre pleaded, "Give the boy the blasted spoon of
malt." Yes, a grown fellow, "we must make a man of him, husband, no
babying for him." "Then damn it to hell," the Babasaheb exploded,
"why do you do it to me?" Mrs. Mhatre burst into tears. "But you are
everything to me," she wept, "you are my father, my lover, my baby too.
You are my lord and my suckling child. If I displease you then I have no
life."
Babasaheb Mhatre, accepting defeat, swallowed the tablespoon of malt.
He was a kindly man, which he disguised with insults and noise. To
console the orphaned youth he would speak to him, in the blue office,
about the philosophy of rebirth, convincing him that his parents were
already being scheduled for re-entry somewhere, unless of course their
lives had been so holy that they had attained the final grace. So it was
Mhatre who started Farishta off on the whole reincarnation business,
and not just reincarnation. The Babasaheb was an amateur psychic, a
tapper of table-legs and a bringer of spirits into glasses. "But I gave
that up," he told his protege, with many suitably melodramatic
inflections, gestures, frowns, "after I got the fright of my bloody life."
Once (Mhatre recounted) the glass had been visited by the most co-
operative of spirits, such a too-friendly fellow, see, so I thought to ask
him some big questions. _Is there a God_, and that glass which had
22
been running round like a mouse or so just stopped dead, middle of
table, not a twitch, completely phutt, kaput. So, then, okay, I said, if
you won't answer that try this one instead, and I came right out with it,
_Is there a Devil_. After that the glass -- baprebap! -- began to shake --
catch your ears! -- slowslow at first, then faster--faster, like a jelly, until
it jumped! -- ai-hai! -- up from the table, into the air, fell down on its
side, and -- o-ho! -- into a thousand and one pieces, smashed. Believe
don't believe, Babasaheb Mhatre told his charge, but thenandthere I
learned my lesson: don't meddle, Mhatre, in what you do not
comprehend.
This story had a profound effect on the consciousness of the young
listener, because even before his mother's death he had become
convinced of the existence of the supernatural world. Sometimes when
he looked around him, especially in the afternoon heat when the air
turned glutinous, the visible world, its features and inhabitants and
things, seemed to be sticking up through the atmosphere like a
profusion of hot icebergs, and he had the idea that everything
continued down below the surface of the soupy air: people, motor-cars,
dogs, movie billboards, trees, nine-tenths of their reality concealed
from his eyes. He would blink, and the illusion would fade, but the
sense of it never left him. He grew up believing in God, angels, demons,
afreets, djinns, as matter-of-factly as if they were bullock-carts or lamp-
posts, and it struck him as a failure in his own sight that he had never
seen a ghost. He would dream of discovering a magic optometrist from
whom he would purchase a pair of greentinged spectacles which would
correct his regrettable myopia, and after that he would be able to see
through the dense, blinding air to the fabulous world beneath.
From his mother Naima Najmuddin he heard a great many stories of
the Prophet, and if inaccuracies had crept into her versions he wasn't
interested in knowing what they were. "What a man!" he thought.
"What angel would not wish to speak to him?" Sometimes, though, he
23
caught himself in the act of forming blasphemous thoughts, for
example when without meaning to, as he drifted off to sleep in his cot
at the Mhatre residence, his somnolent fancy began to compare his own
condition with that of the Prophet at the time when, having been
orphaned and short of funds, he made a great success of his job as the
business manager of the wealthy widow Khadija, and ended up marrying
her as well. As he slipped into sleep he saw himself sitting on a rose-
strewn dais, simpering shyly beneath the sari-pallu which he had placed
demurely over his face, while his new husband, Babasaheb Mhatre,
reached lovingly towards him to remove the fabric, and gaze at his
features in a mirror placed in his lap. This dream of marrying the
Babasaheb brought him awake, flushing hotly for shame, and after that
he began to worry about the impurity in his make-up that could create
such terrible visions.
Mostly, however, his religious faith was a low-key thing, a part of him
that required no more special attention than any other. When
Babasaheb Mhatre took him into his home it confirmed to the young
man that he was not alone in the world, that something was taking care
of him, so he was not entirely surprised when the Babasaheb called him
into the blue office on the morning of his twenty-first birthday and
sacked him without even being prepared to listen to an appeal.
"You're fired," Mhatre emphasized, beaming. "Cashiered, had your
chips. Dis-_miss_."
"But, uncle,"
"Shut your face."
Then the Babasaheb gave the orphan the greatest present of his life,
informing him that a meeting had been arranged for him at the studios
of the legendary film magnate Mr. D. W. Rama; an audition. "It is for
appearance only," the Babasaheb said. "Rama is my good friend and we
24
have discussed. A small part to begin, then it is up to you. Now get out
of my sight and stop pulling such humble faces, it does not suit."
"But, uncle,"
"Boy like you is too damn goodlooking to carry tiffins on his head all
his life. Get gone now, go, be a homosexual movie actor. I fired you five
minutes back."
"But, uncle,"
"I have spoken. Thank your lucky stars."
He became Gibreel Farishta, but for four years he did not become a star,
serving his apprenticeship in a succession of minor knockabout comic
parts. He remained calm, unhurried, as though he could see the future,
and his apparent lack of ambition made him something of an outsider
in that most self-seeking of industries. He was thought to be stupid or
arrogant or both. And throughout the four wilderness years he failed to
kiss a single woman on the mouth.
On-screen, he played the fall guy, the idiot who loves the beauty and
can't see that she wouldn't go for him in a thousand years, the funny
uncle, the poor relation, the village idiot, the servant, the incompetent
crook, none of them the type of part that ever rates a love scene.
Women kicked him, slapped him, teased him, laughed at him, but never,
on celluloid, looked at him or sang to him or danced around him with
cinematic love in their eyes. Off-screen, he lived alone in two empty
rooms near the studios and tried to imagine what women looked like
without clothes on. To get his mind off the subject of love and desire,
he studied, becoming an omnivorous autodidact, devouring the
metamorphic myths of Greece and Rome, the avatars of Jupiter, the boy
who became a flower, the spider-woman, Circe, everything; and the
theosophy of Annie Besant, and unified field theory, and the incident of
25
the Satanic verses in the early career of the Prophet, and the politics of
Muhammad's harem after his return to Mecca in triumph; and the
surrealism of the newspapers, in which butterflies could fly into young
girls' mouths, asking to be consumed, and children were born with no
faces, and young boys dreamed in impossible detail of earlier
incarnations, for instance in a golden fortress filled with precious
stones. He filled himself up with God knows what, but he could not
deny, in the small hours of his insomniac nights, that he was full of
something that had never been used, that he did not know how to begin
to use, that is, love. In his dreams he was tormented by women of
unbearable sweetness and beauty, so he preferred to stay awake and
force himself to rehearse some part of his general knowledge in order to
blot out the tragic feeling of being endowed with a larger-than-usual
capacity for love, without a single person on earth to offer it to.
His big break arrived with the coming of the theological movies. Once
the formula of making films based on the puranas, and adding the
usual mixture of songs, dances, funny uncles etc., had paid off, every
god in the pantheon got his or her chance to be a star. When D. W.
Rama scheduled a production based on the story of Ganesh, none of the
leading box-office names of the time were willing to spend an entire
movie concealed inside an elephant's head. Gibreel jumped at the
chance. That was his first hit, _Ganpati Baba_, and suddenly he was a
superstar, but only with the trunk and ears on. After six movies playing
the elephantheaded god he was permitted to remove the thick,
pendulous, grey mask and put on, instead, a long, hairy tail, in order to
play Hanuman the monkey king in a sequence of adventure movies that
owed more to a certain cheap television series emanating from Hong
Kong than it did to the Ramayana. This series proved so popular that
monkey-tails became de rigueur for the city's young bucks at the kind
of parties frequented by convent girls known as "firecrackers" because
of their readiness to go off with a bang.
26
After Hanuman there was no stopping Gibreel, and his phenomenal
success deepened his belief in a guardian angel. But it also led to a more
regrettable development.
(I see that I must, after all, spill poor Rekha's beans.)
Even before he replaced false head with fake tail he had become
irresistibly attractive to women. The seductions of his fame had grown
so great that several of these young ladies asked him if he would keep
the Ganesh-mask on while they made love, but he refused out of respect
for the dignity of the god. Owing to the innocence of his upbringing he
could not at that time differentiate between quantity and quality and
accordingly felt the need to make up for lost time. He had so many
sexual partners that it was not uncommon for him to forget their
names even before they had left his room. Not only did he become a
philanderer of the worst type, but he also learned the arts of
dissimulation, because a man who plays gods must be above reproach.
So skilfully did he conceal his life of scandal and debauch that his old
patron, Babasaheb Mhatre, lying on his deathbed a decade after he sent
a young dabbawalla out into the world of illusion, black-money and
lust, begged him to get married to prove he was a man. "God-sake,
mister," the Babasaheb pleaded, "when I told you back then to go and
be a homo I never thought you would take me seriously, there is a limit
to respecting one's elders, after all." Gibreel threw up his hands and
swore that he was no such disgraceful thing, and that when the right
girl came along he would of course undergo nuptials with a will. "What
you waiting? Some goddess from heaven? Greta Garbo, Gracekali,
who?" cried the old man, coughing blood, but Gibreel left him with the
enigma of a smile that allowed him to die without having his mind set
entirely at rest.
The avalanche of sex in which Gibreel Farishta was trapped managed to
bury his greatest talent so deep that it might easily have been lost
forever, his talent, that is, for loving genuinely, deeply and without
27
holding back, the rare and delicate gift which he had never been able to
employ. By the time of his illness he had all but forgotten the anguish
he used to experience owing to his longing for love, which had twisted
and turned in him like a sorcerer's knife. Now, at the end of each
gymnastic night, he slept easily and long, as if he had never been
plagued by dream-women, as if he had never hoped to lose his heart.
"Your trouble," Rekha Merchant told him when she materialized out of
the clouds, "is everybody always forgave you, God knows why, you
always got let off, you got away with murder. Nobody ever held you
responsible for what you did." He couldn't argue. "God's gift," she
screamed at him, "God knows where you thought you were from,
jumped-up type from the gutter, God knows what diseases you
brought."
But that was what women did, he thought in those days, they were the
vessels into which he could pour himself, and when he moved on, they
would understand that it was his nature, and forgive. And it was true
that nobody blamed him for leaving, for his thousand and one pieces of
thoughtlessness, how many abortions, Rekha demanded in the cloud-
hole, how many broken hearts. In all those years he was the beneficiary
of the infinite generosity of women, but he was its victim, too, because
their forgiveness made possible the deepest and sweetest corruption of
all, namely the idea that he was doing nothing wrong.
Rekha: she entered his life when he bought the penthouse at Everest
Vilas and she offered, as a neighbour and businesswoman, to show him
her carpets and antiques. Her husband was at a world-wide congress of
ball-bearings manufacturers in Gothenburg, Sweden, and in his absence
she invited Gibreel into her apartment of stone lattices from Jaisalmer
and carved wooden handrails from Kcralan palaces and a stone Mughal
chhatri or cupola turned into a whirlpool bath; while she poured him
French champagne she leaned against marbled walls and felt the cool
veins of the stone against her back. When he sipped the champagne she
28
teased him, surely gods should not partake of alcohol, and he answered
with a line he had once read in an interview with the Aga Khan, O, you
know, this champagne is only for outward show, the moment it touches
my lips it turns to water. After that it didn't take long for her to touch
his lips and deliquesce into his arms. By the time her children returned
from school with the ayah she was immaculately dressed and coiffed,
and sat with him in the drawing-room, revealing the secrets of the
carpet business, confessing that art silk stood for artificial not artistic,
telling him not to be fooled by her brochure in which a rug was
seductively described as being made of wool plucked from the throats
of baby lambs, which means, you see, only _low-grade wool_,
advertising, what to do, this is how it is.
He did not love her, was not faithful to her, forgot her birthdays, failed
to return her phone calls, turned up when it was most inconvenient
owing to the presence in her home of dinner guests from the world of
the ball-bearing, and like everyone else she forgave him. But her
forgiveness was not the silent, mousy let-off he got from the others.
Rekha complained like crazy, she gave him hell, she bawled him out and
cursed him for a useless lafanga and haramzada and salah and even, in
extremis, for being guilty of the impossible feat of fucking the sister he
did not have. She spared him nothing, accusing him of being a creature
of surfaces, like a movie screen, and then she went ahead and forgave
him anyway and allowed him to unhook her blouse. Gibreel could not
resist the operatic forgiveness of Rekha Merchant, which was all the
more moving on account of the flaw in her own position, her infidelity
to the ball-bearing king, which Gibreel forbore to mention, taking his
verbal beatings like a man. So that whereas the pardons he got from the
rest of his women left him cold and he forgot them the moment they
were uttered, he kept coming back to Rekha, so that she could abuse
him and then console him as only she knew how.
Then he almost died.
29
He was filming at Kanya Kumari, standing on the very tip of Asia,
taking part in a fight scene set at the point on Cape Comorin where it
seems that three oceans are truly smashing into one another. Three sets
of waves rolled in from the west east south and collided in a mighty
clapping of watery hands just as Gibreel took a punch on the jaw,
perfect timing, and he passed out on the spot, falling backwards into
tri-oceanic spume. He did not get up.
To begin with everybody blamed the giant English stunt-man Eustace
Brown, who had delivered the punch. He protested vehemently. Was he
not the same fellow who had performed opposite Chief Minister N. T.
Rama Rao in his many theological movie roles? Had he not perfected
the art of making the old man look good in combat without hurting
him? Had he ever complained that NTR never pulled his punches, so
that he, Eustace, invariably ended up black and blue, having been
beaten stupid by a little old guy whom he could've eaten for breakfast,
on _toast_, and had he ever, even once, lost his temper? Well, then?
How could anyone think he would hurt the immortal Gibreel? -- They
fired him anyway and the police put him in the lock-up, just in case.
But it was not the punch that had flattened Gibreel. After the star had
been flown into Bombay's Breach Candy Hospital in an Air Force jet
made available for the purpose; after exhaustive tests had come up with
almost nothing; and while he lay unconscious, dying, with a blood-
count that had fallen from his normal fifteen to a murderous four
point two, a hospital spokesman faced the national press on Breach
Candy's wide white steps. "It is a freak mystery," he gave out. "Call it, if
you so please, an act of God."
Gibreel Farishta had begun to haemorrhage all over his insides for no
apparent reason, and was quite simply bleeding to death inside his skin.
At the worst moment the blood began to seep out through his rectum
and penis, and it seemed that at any moment it might burst torrentially
through his nose and ears and out of the corners of his eyes. For seven
30
days he bled, and received transfusions, and every clotting agent known
to medical science, including a concentrated form of rat poison, and
although the treatment resulted in a marginal improvement the doctors
gave him up for lost.
The whole of India was at Gibreel's bedside. His condition was the lead
item on every radio bulletin, it was the subject of hourly news-flashes
on the national television network, and the crowd that gathered in
Warden Road was so large that the police had to disperse it with lathi-
charges and tear-gas, which they used even though every one of the half-
million mourners was already tearful and wailing. The Prime Minister
cancelled her appointments and flew to visit him. Her son the airline
pilot sat in Farishta's bedroom, holding the actor's hand. A mood of
apprehension settled over the nation, because if God had unleashed
such an act of retribution against his most celebrated incarnation, what
did he have in store for the rest of the country? If Gibreel died, could
India be far behind? In the mosques and temples of the nation, packed
congregations prayed, not only for the life of the dying actor, but for
the future, for themselves.
Who did not visit Gibreel in hospital? Who never wrote, made no
telephone call, despatched no flowers, sent in no tiffins of delicious
home cooking? While many lovers shamelessly sent him get-well cards
and lamb pasandas, who, loving him most of all, kept herself to herself,
unsuspected by her ball--bearing of a husband? Rekha Merchant placed
iron around her heart, and went through the motions of her daily life,
playing with her children, chit-chatting with her husband, acting as his
hostess when required, and never, not once, revealed the bleak
devastation of her soul.
He recovered.
The recovery was as mysterious as the illness, and as rapid. It, too, was
called (by hospital, journalists, friends) an act of the Supreme. A
31
national holiday was declared; fireworks were set off up and down the
land. But when Gibreel regained his strength, it became clear that he
had changed, and to a startling degree, because he had lost his faith.
On the day he was discharged from hospital he went under police escort
through the immense crowd that had gathered to celebrate its own
deliverance as well as his, climbed into his Mercedes and told the driver
to give all the pursuing vehicles the slip, which took seven hours and
fifty-one minutes, and by the end of the manoeuvre he had worked out
what had to be done. He got out of the limousine at the Taj hotel and
without looking left or right went directly into the great dining-room
with its buffet table groaning under the weight of forbidden foods, and
he loaded his plate with all of it, the pork sausages from Wiltshire and
the cured York hams and the rashers of bacon from godknowswhere;
with the gammon steaks of his unbelief and the pig's trotters of
secularism; and then, standing there in the middle of the hall, while
photographers popped up from nowhere, he began to eat as fast as
possible, stuffing the dead pigs into his face so rapidly that bacon
rashers hung out of the sides of his mouth.
During his illness he had spent every minute of consciousness calling
upon God, every second of every minute. Ya Allah whose servant lies
bleeding do not abandon me now after watching oven me so long. Ya
Allah show me some sign, some small mark of your favour, that I may
find in myself the strength to cure my ills. O God most beneficent most
merciful, be with me in this my time of need, my most grievous need.
Then it occurred to him that he was being punished, and for a time that
made it possible to suffer the pain, but after a time he got angry.
Enough, God, his unspoken words demanded, why must I die when I
have not killed, are you vengeance or are you love? The anger with God
carried him through another day, but then it faded, and in its place
there came a terrible emptiness, an isolation, as he realized he was
talking to _thin air_, that there was nobody there at all, and then he
32
felt more foolish than ever in his life, and he began to plead into the
emptiness, ya Allah, just be there, damn it, just be. But he felt nothing,
nothing nothing, and then one day he found that he no longer needed
there to be anything to feel. On that day of metamorphosis the illness
changed and his recovery began. And to prove to himself the non-
existence of God, he now stood in the dining-hall of the city's most
famous hotel, with pigs falling out of his face.
He looked up from his plate to find a woman watching him. Her hair
was so fair that it was almost white, and her skin possessed the colour
and translucency of mountain ice. She laughed at him and turned away.
"Don't you get it?" he shouted after her, spewing sausage fragments
from the corners of his mouth. "No thunderbolt. That's the point."
She came back to stand in front of him. "You're alive," she told him.
"You got your life back. _That's_ the point."
He told Rekha: the moment she turned around and started walking
back I fell in love with her. Alleluia Cone, climber of mountains,
vanquisher of Everest, blonde yahudan, ice queen. Her challenge,
_change your life, or did you get it back for nothing_, I couldn't resist.
"You and your reincarnation junk," Rekha cajoled him. "Such a
nonsense head. You come out of hospital, back through death's door,
and it goes to your head, crazy boy, at once you must have some
escapade thing, and there she is, hey presto, the blonde mime. Don't
think I don't know what you're like, Gibbo, so what now, you want me
to forgive you or what?"
No need, he said. He left Rekha's apartment (its mistress wept, face-
down, on the floor); and never entered it again.
Three days after he met her with his mouth full of unclean meat Allie
got into an aeroplane and left. Three days out of time behind a do-not-
33
disturb sign, but in the end they agreed that the world was real, what
was possible was possible and what was impossible was im--, brief
encounter, ships that pass, love in a transit lounge. After she left,
Gibreel rested, tried to shut his ears to her challenge, resolved to get his
life back to normal. Just because he'd lost his belief it didn't mean he
couldn't do his job, and in spite of the scandal of the ham-eating
photographs, the first scandal ever to attach itself to his name, he
signed movie contracts and went back to work.
And then, one morning, a wheelchair stood empty and he had gone. A
bearded passenger, one Ismail Najmuddin, boarded Flight AI-420 to
London. The 747 was named after one of the gardens of Paradise, not
Gulistan but _Bostan_. "To be born again," Gibreel Farishta said to
Saladin Chamcha much later, "first you have to die. Me, I only half-
expired, but I did it on two occasions, hospital and plane, so it adds up,
it counts. And now, Spoono my friend, here I stand before you in Proper
London, Vilayet, regenerated, a new man with a new life. Spoono, is this
not a bloody fine thing?"
Why did he leave?
Because of her, the challenge of her, the newness, the fierceness of the
two of them together, the inexorability of an impossible thing that was
insisting on its right to become.
And, or, maybe: because after he ate the pigs the retribution began, a
nocturnal retribution, a punishment of dreams.
Once the flight to London had taken off, thanks to his magic trick of
crossing two pairs of fingers on each hand and rotating his thumbs, the
narrow, fortyish fellow who sat in a non-smoking window seat watching
34
the city of his birth fall away from him like old snakeskin allowed a
relieved expression to pass briefly across his face. This face was
handsome in a somewhat sour, patrician fashion, with long, thick,
downturned lips like those of a disgusted turbot, and thin eyebrows
arching sharply over eyes that watched the world with a kind of alert
contempt. Mr. Saladin Chamcha had constructed this face with care -- it
had taken him several years to get it just right -- and for many more
years now he had thought of it simply as _his own_ -- indeed, he had
forgotten what he had looked like before it. Furthermore, he had
shaped himself a voice to go with the face, a voice whose languid,
almost lazy vowels contrasted disconcertingly with the sawn--off
abruptness of the consonants. The combination of face and voice was a
potent one; but, during his recent visit to his home town, his first such
visit in fifteen years (the exact period, I should observe, of Gibreel
Farishta's film stardom), there had been strange and worrying
developments. It was unfortunately the case that his voice (the first to
go) and, subsequently, his face itself, had begun to let him down.
It started -- Chamcha, allowing fingers and thumbs to relax and hoping,
in some embarrassment, that his last remaining superstition had gone
unobserved by his fellow-passengers, closed his eyes and remembered
with a delicate shudder of horror -- on his flight east some weeks ago.
He had fallen into a torpid sleep, high above the desert sands of the
Persian Gulf, and been visited in a dream by a bizarre stranger, a man
with a glass skin, who rapped his knuckles mournfully against the thin,
brittle membrane covering his entire body and begged Saladin to help
him, to release him from the prison of his skin. Chamcha picked up a
stone and began to batter at the glass. At once a latticework of blood
oozed up through the cracked surface of the stranger's body, and when
Chamcha tried to pick off the broken shards the other began to scream,
because chunks of his flesh were coming away with the glass. At this
point an air stewardess bent over the sleeping Chamcha and demanded,
with the pitiless hospitality of her tribe: _Something to drink, sir? A
35
drink?_, and Saladin, emerging from the dream, found his speech
unaccountably metamorphosed into the Bombay lilt he had so
diligently (and so long ago!) unmade. "Achha, means what?" he
mumbled. "Alcoholic beverage or what?" And, when the stewardess
reassured him, whatever you wish, sir, all beverages are gratis, he heard,
once again, his traitor voice: "So, okay, bibi, give one whiskysoda only."
What a nasty surprise! He had come awake with a jolt, and sat stiffly in
his chair, ignoring alcohol and peanuts. How had the past bubbled up,
in transmogrified vowels and vocab? What next? Would he take to
putting coconut-oil in his hair? Would he take to squeezing his nostrils
between thumb and forefinger, blowing noisily and drawing forth a
glutinous silver arc of muck? Would he become a devotee of
professional wrestling? What further, diabolic humiliations were in
store? He should have known it was a mistake to _go home_, after so
long, how could it be other than a regression; it was an unnatural
journey; a denial of time; a revolt against history; the whole thing was
bound to be a disaster.
_I'm not myself_, he thought as a faint fluttering feeling began in the
vicinity of his heart. But what does that mean, anyway, he added
bitterly. After all, "les acteurs ne sont pas des gens", as the great ham
Frederick had explained in _Les Enfants du Paradis_. Masks beneath
masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull.
The seatbelt light came on, the captain's voice warned of air turbulence,
they dropped in and out of air pockets. The desert lurched about
beneath them and the migrant labourer who had boarded at Qatar
clutched at his giant transistor radio and began to retch. Chamcha
noticed that the man had not fastened his belt, and pulled himself
together, bringing his voice back to its haughtiest English pitch. "Look
here, why don't you. . ." he indicated, but the sick man, between bursts
of heaving into the paper bag which Saladin had handed him just in
time, shook his head, shrugged, replied: "Sahib, for what? If Allah
36
wishes me to die, I shall die. If he does not, I shall not. Then of what
use is the safety?"
Damn you, India, Saladin Chamcha cursed silently, sinking back into
his seat. To hell with you, I escaped your clutches long ago, you won't
get your hooks into me again, you cannot drag me back.
Once upon a time -- _it was and it was not so_, as the old stories used
to say, _it happened and it never did_ -- maybe, then, or maybe not, a
ten-year-old boy from Scandal Point in Bombay found a wallet lying in
the Street outside his home. He was on the way home from school,
having just descended from the school bus on which he had been
obliged to sit squashed between the adhesive sweatiness of boys in
shorts and be deafened by their noise, and because even in those days he
was a person who recoiled from raucousness, jostling and the
perspiration of strangers he was feeling faintly nauseated by the long,
bumpy ride home. However, when he saw the black leather billfold lying
at his feet, the nausea vanished, and he bent down excitedly and
grabbed, -- opened, -- and found, to his delight, that it was full of cash,
-- and not merely rupees, but real money, negotiable on black markets
and international exchanges, -- pounds! Pounds sterling, from Proper
London in the fabled country of Vilayet across the black water and far
away. Dazzled by the thick wad of foreign currency, the boy raised his
eyes to make sure he had not been observed, and for a moment it
seemed to him that a rainbow had arched down to him from the
heavens, a rainbow like an angel's breath, like an answered prayer,
coming to an end in the very spot on which he stood. His fingers
trembled as they reached into the wallet, towards the fabulous hoard.
"Give it." It seemed to him in later life that his father had been spying
on him throughout his childhood, and even though Changez
Chamchawala was a big man, a giant even, to say nothing of his wealth
and public standing, he still always had the lightness of foot and also
the inclination to sneak up behind his son and spoil whatever he was
37
doing, whipping the young Salahuddin's bedsheet off at night to reveal
the shameful penis in the clutching, red hand. And he could smell
money from a hundred and one miles away, even through the stink of
chemicals and fertilizer that always hung around him owing to his
being the country's largest manufacturer of agricultural sprays and
fluids and artificial dung. Changez Chamchawala, philanthropist,
philanderer, living legend, leading light of the nationalist movement,
sprang from the gateway of his home to pluck a bulging wallet from his
son's frustrated hand. "Teh tch," he admonished, pocketing the pounds
sterling, "you should not pick things up from the street. The ground is
dirty, and money is dirtier, anyway."
On a shelf of Changez Chamchawala's teak-lined study, beside a ten-
volume set of the Richard Burton translation of the Arabian Nights,
which was being slowly devoured by mildew and bookworm owing to
the deep-seated prejudice against books which led Changez to own
thousands of the pernicious things in order to humiliate them by
leaving them to rot unread, there stood a magic lamp, a brightly
polished copper--and--brass avatar of Aladdin's very own genie-
container: a lamp begging to be rubbed. But Changez neither rubbed it
nor permitted it to be rubbed by, for example, his son. "One day," he
assured the boy, "you'll have it for yourself. Then rub and rub as much
as you like and see what doesn't come to you. Just now, but, it is mine."
The promise of the magic lamp infected Master Salahuddin with the
notion that one day his troubles would end and his innermost desires
would be gratified, and all he had to do was wait it out; but then there
was the incident of the wallet, when the magic of a rainbow had worked
for him, not for his father but for him, and Changez Chamchawala had
stolen the crock of gold. After that the son became convinced that his
father would smother all his hopes unless he got away, and from that
moment he became desperate to leave, to escape, to place oceans
between the great man and himself.
38
Salahuddin Chamchawala had understood by his thirteenth year that he
was destined for that cool Vilayet full of the crisp promises of pounds
sterling at which the magic billfold had hinted, and he grew
increasingly impatient of that Bombay of dust, vulgarity, policemen in
shorts, transvestites, movie fanzines, pavement sleepers and the
rumoured singing whores of Grant Road who had begun as devotees of
the Yellamma cult in Karnataka but ended up here as dancers in the
more prosaic temples of the flesh. He was fed up of textile factories and
local trains and all the confusion and superabundance of the place, and
longed for that dream-Vilayet of poise and moderation that had come
to obsess him by night and day. His favourite playground rhymes were
those that yearned for foreign cities: kitchy--con kitchy-ki kitchy-con
stanty-eye kitchy-ople kitchy-cople kitchyCon-stanti-nople. And his
favourite game was the version ofgrandmother's footsteps in which,
when he was it, he would turn his back on upcreeping playmates to
gabble out, like a mantra, like a spell, the six letters of his dream--city,
_ellowen deeowen_. In his secret heart, he crept silently up on London,
letter by letter, just as his friends crept up to him. _Ellowen deeowen
London_.
The mutation of Salahuddin Chamchawala into Saladin Chamcha
began, it will be seen, in old Bombay, long before he got close enough
to hear the lions of Trafalgar roar. When the England cricket team
played India at the Brabourne Stadium, he prayed for an England
victory, for the game's creators to defeat the local upstarts, for the
proper order of things to be maintained. (But the games were invariably
drawn, owing to the featherbed somnolence of the Brabourne Stadium
wicket; the great issue, creator versus imitator, colonizer against
colonized, had perforce to remain unresolved.)
In his thirteenth year he was old enough to play on the rocks at Scandal
Point without having to be watched over by his ayah, Kasturba. And one
day (it was so, it was not so), he strolled out of the house, that ample,
39
crumbling, salt-caked building in the Parsi style, all columns and
shutters and little balconies, and through the garden that was his
father's pride and joy and which in a certain evening light could give
the impression of being infinite (and which was also enigmatic, an
unsolved riddle, because nobody, not his father, not the gardener, could
tell him the names of most of the plants and trees), and out through
the main gateway, a grandiose folly, a reproduction of the Roman
triumphal arch of Septimius Severus, and across the wild insanity of the
street, and over the sea wall, and so at last on to the broad expanse of
shiny black rocks with their little shrimpy pools. Christian girls giggled
in frocks, men with furled umbrellas stood silent and fixed upon the
blue horizon. In a hollow of black stone Salahuddin saw a man in a
dhoti bending over a pool. Their eyes met, and the man beckoned him
with a single finger which he then laid across his lips. _Shh_, and the
mystery of rock-pools drew the boy towards the stranger. He was a
creature of bone. Spectacles framed in what might have been ivory. His
finger curling, curling, like a baited hook, come. When Salahuddin
came down the other grasped him, put a hand around his mouth and
forced his young hand between old and fleshless legs, to feel the
fleshbone there. The dhoti open to the winds. Salahuddin had never
known how to fight; he did what he was forced to do, and then the
other simply turned away from him and let him go.
After that Salahuddin never went to the rocks at Scandal Point; nor did
he tell anyone what had happened, knowing the neurasthenic crises it
would unleash in his mother and suspecting that his father would say it
was his own fault. It seemed to him that everything loathsome,
everything he had come to revile about his home town, had come
together in the stranger's bony embrace, and now that he had escaped
that evil skeleton he must also escape Bombay, or die. He began to
concentrate fiercely upon this idea, to fix his will upon it at all times,
eating shitting sleeping, convincing himself that he could make the
miracle happen even without his father's lamp to help him out. He
40
dreamed of flying out of his bedroom window to discover that there,
below him, was -- not Bombay -- but Proper London itself, Bigben
Nelsonscolumn Lordstavern Bloodytower Queen. But as he floated out
over the great metropolis he felt himself beginning to lose height, and
no matter how hard he struggled kicked swam-in-air he continued to
spiral slowly downwards to earth, then faster, then faster still, until he
was screaming headfirst down towards the city, Saintpauls,
Puddinglane, Threadneedlestreet, zeroing in on London like a bomb.
When the impossible happened, and his father, out of the blue, offered
him an English education, _to get me out of the way_, he thought,
_otherwise why, it's obvious, but don't look a gift horse andsoforth_,
his mother Nasreen Chamchawala refused to cry, and volunteered,
instead, the benefit of her advice. "Don't go dirty like those English,"
she warned him. "They wipe their bee tee ems with paper only. Also,
they get into each other's dirty bathwater." These vile slanders proved
to Salahuddin that his mother was doing her damnedest to prevent him
from leaving, and in spite of their mutual love he replied, "It is
inconceivable, Ammi, what you say. England is a great civilization, what
are you talking, bunk."
She smiled her little nervy smile and did not argue. And, later, stood
dry-eyed beneath the triumphal arch of a gateway and would not go to
Santacruz airport to see him off. Her only child. She heaped garlands
around his neck until he grew dizzy with the cloying perfumes of
mother-love.
Nasreen Chamchawala was the slightest, most fragile of women, her
bones like tinkas, like minute slivers of wood. To make up for her
physical insignificance she took at an early age to dressing with a
certain outrageous, excessive verve. Her sari-- patterns were dazzling,
even garish: lemon silk adorned with huge brocade diamonds, dizzy
41
black-and-white Op Art swirls, gigantic lipstick kisses on a bright white
ground. People forgave her her lurid taste because she wore the
blinding garments with such innocence; because the voice emanating
from that textile cacophony was so tiny and hesitant and proper. And
because of her soirees.
Each Friday of her married life, Nasreen would fill the halls of the
Chamchawala residence, those usually tenebrous chambers like great
hollow burial vaults, with bright light and brittle friends. When
Salahuddin was a little boy he had insisted on playing doorman, and
would greet the jewelled and lacquered guests with great gravity,
permitting them to pat him on the head and call him _cuteso_ and
_chweetie-pie_. On Fridays the house was full of noise; there were
musicians, singers, dancers, the latest Western hits as heard on Radio
Ceylon, raucous puppet-shows in which painted clay rajahs rode
puppet-stallions, decapitating enemy marionettes with imprecations
and wooden swords. During the rest of the week, however, Nasreen
would stalk the house warily, a pigeon of a woman walking on tiptoed
feet through the gloom, as if she were afraid to disturb the shadowed
silence; and her son, walking in her footsteps, also learned to lighten
his footfall lest he rouse whatever goblin or afreet might be lying in
wait.
But: Nasreen Chamchawala's caution failed to save her life. The horror
seized and murdered her when she believed herself most safe, clad in a
sari covered in cheap newspaper photos and headlines, bathed in
chandelier-light, surrounded by her friends.
By then five and a half years had passed since young Salahuddin,
garlanded and warned, boarded a Douglas D C-8 and journeyed into the
west. Ahead of him, England; beside him, his father, Changez
42
Chamchawala; below him, home and beauty. Like Nasreen, the future
Saladin had never found it easy to cry.
On that first aeroplane he read science fiction tales of interplanetary
migration: Asimov's _Foundation_, Ray Bradbury's _Martian
Chronicles_. He imagined the DC--8 was the mother ship, bearing the
Chosen, the Elect of God and man, across unthinkable distances,
travelling for generations, breeding eugenically, that their seed might
one day take root somewhere in a brave new world beneath a yellow sun.
He corrected himself: not the mother but the father ship, because there
he was, after all, the great man, Abbu, Dad. Thirteen-year--old
Salahuddin, setting aside recent doubts and grievances, entered once
again his childish adoration of his father, because he had, had, had
worshipped him, he was a great father until you started growing a mind
of your own, and then to argue with him was called a betrayal of his
love, but never mind that now, _I accuse him of becoming my supreme
being, so that what happened was like a loss of faith_ . . . yes, the father
ship, an aircraft was not a flying womb but a metal phallus, and the
passengers were spermatozoa waiting to be spilt.
Five and a half hours of time zones; turn your watch upside down in
Bombay and you see the time in London. _My father_, Chamcha would
think, years later, in the midst of his bitterness. _I accuse him of
inverting Time_.
How far did they fly? Five and a half thousand as the crow. Or: from
Indianness to Englishness, an immeasurable distance. Or, not very far
at all, because they rose from one great city, fell to another. The
distance between cities is always small; a villager, travelling a hundred
miles to town, traverses emptier, darker, more terrifying space.
What Changez Chamchawala did when the aeroplane took off: trying
not to let his son see him doing it, he crossed two pairs of fingers on
each hand, and rotated both his thumbs.
43
And when they were installed in a hotel within a few feet of the ancient
location of the Tyburn tree, Changez said to his son: "Take. This
belongs to you." And held out, at arm's length, a black billfold about
whose identity there could be no mistake. "You are a man now. Take."
The return of the confiscated wallet, complete with all its currency,
proved to be one of Changez Chamchawala's little traps. Salahuddin
had been deceived by these all his life. Whenever his father wanted to
punish him, he would offer him a present, a bar of imported chocolate
or a tin of Kraft cheese, and would then grab him when he came to get
it. "Donkey," Changez scorned his infant son. "Always, always, the
carrot leads you to my stick."
Salahuddin in London took the proffered wallet, accepting the gift of
manhood; whereupon his father said: "Now that you are a man, it is for
you to look after your old father while we are in London town. You pay
all the bills."
January, 1961. A year you could turn upside down and it would still,
unlike your watch, tell the same time. It was winter; but when
Salahuddin Chamchawala began to shiver in his hotel room, it was
because he was scared halfway out of his wits; his crock of gold had
turned, suddenly, into a sorcerer's curse.
Those two weeks in London before he went to his boarding school
turned into a nightmare of cash--tills and calculations, because
Changez had meant exactly what he said and never put his hand into
his own pocket once. Salahuddin had to buy his own clothes, such as a
double-breasted blue serge mackintosh and seven blue-and-white
striped Van Heusen shirts with detachable semi--stiff collars which
Changez made him wear every day, to get used to the studs, and
Salahuddin felt as if a blunt knife were being pushed in just beneath his
newly broken Adam"s-apple; and he had to make sure there would be
enough for the hotel room, and everything, so that he was too nervous
44
co ask his father if they could go to a movie, not even one, not even
_The Pure Hell of St Trinians_, or to eat out, not a single Chinese meal,
and in later years he would remember nothing of his first fortnight in
his beloved Ellowen Deeowen except pounds shillings pence, like the
disciple of the philosopher--king Chanakya who asked the great man
what he meant by saying one could live in the world and also not live in
it, and who was told to carry a brim-full pitcher of water through a
holiday crowd without spilling a drop, on pain of death, so that when
he returned he was unable to describe the day's festivities, having been
like a blind man, seeing only the jug on his head.
Changez Chamchawala became very still in those days, seeming not to
care if he ate or drank or did any damn thing, he was happy sitting in
the hotel room watching television, especially when the Flintstones
were on, because, he told his son, that Wilma bibi reminded him of
Nasreen. Salahuddin tried to prove he was a man by fasting right along
with his father, trying to outlast him, but he never managed it, and
when the pangs got too strong he went out of the hotel to the cheap
joint nearby where you could buy take-away roast chickens that hung
greasily in the window, turning slowly on their spits. When he brought
the chicken into the hotel lobby he became embarrassed, not wanting
the staff to see, so he stuffed it inside doublebreasted serge and went up
in the lift reeking of spit--roast, his mackintosh bulging, his face
turning red. Chicken-breasted beneath the gaze of dowagers and
liftwallahs he felt the birth of that implacable rage which would burn
within him, undiminished, for over a quarter of a century; which would
boil away his childhood father-worship and make him a secular man,
who would do his best, thereafter, to live without a god of any type;
which would fuel, perhaps, his determination to become the thing his
father was-not-could-never-be, that is, a goodandproper Englishman.
Yes, an English, even if his mother had been right all along, even if
there was only paper in the toilets and tepid, used water full of mud
and soap to step into after taking exercise, even if it meant a lifetime
45
spent amongst winter—naked trees whose fingers clutched despairingly
at the few, pale hours of watery, filtered light. On winter nights he, who
had never slept beneath more than a sheet, lay beneath mountains of
wool and felt like a figure in an ancient myth, condemned by the gods
to have a boulder pressing down upon his chest; but never mind, he
would be English, even if his classmates giggled at his voice and
excluded him from their secrets, because these exclusions only
increased his determination, and that was when he began to act, to find
masks that these fellows would recognize, paleface masks, clown-masks,
until he fooled them into thinking he was _okay_, he was _people-like-
us_. He fooled them the way a sensitive human being can persuade
gorillas to accept him into their family, to fondle and caress and stuff
bananas in his mouth.
(After he had settled up the last bill, and the wallet he had once found
at a rainbow's end was empty, his father said to him: "See now. You pay
your way. I've made a man of you." But what man? That's what fathers
never know. Not in advance; not until it's too late.)
One day soon after he started at the school he came down to breakfast
to find a kipper on his plate. He sat there staring at it, not knowing
where to begin. Then he cut into it, and got a mouthful of tiny bones.
And after extracting them all, another mouthful, more bones. His
fellow-pupils watched him suffer in silence; not one of them said, here,
let me show you, you eat it in this way. It took him ninety minutes to
eat the fish and he was not permitted to rise from the table until it was
done. By that time he was shaking, and if he had been able to cry he
would have done so. Then the thought occurred to him that he had
been taught an important lesson. England was a peculiar-tasting
smoked fish full of spikes and bones, and nobody would ever tell him
how to eat it. He discovered that he was a bloody-minded person. "I'll
show them all," he swore. "You see if I don't." The eaten kipper was his
first victory, the first step in his conquest of England.
46
William the Conqueror, it is said, began by eating a mouthful of
English sand.
Five years later he was back home after leaving school, waiting until the
English university term began, and his transmutation into a Vilayeti
was well advanced. "See how well he complains," Nasreen teased him in
front of his father. "About everything he has such big-big criticisms,
the fans are fixed too. loosely to the roof and will fall to slice our heads
off in our sleep, he says, and the food is too fattening, why we don't
cook some things without frying, he wants to know, the top-floor
balconies are unsafe and the paint is peeled, why can't we take pride in
our surroundings, isn't it, and the garden is overgrown, we are just
junglee people, he thinks so, and look how coarse our movies are, now
he doesn't enjoy, and so much disease you can't even drink water from
the tap, my god, he really got an education, husband, our little Sallu,
England—returned, and talking so fine and all."
They were walking on the lawn in the evening, watching the sun dive
into the sea, wandering in the shade of those great spreading trees,
some snaky some bearded, which Salahuddin (who now called himself
Saladin after the fashion of the English school, but would remain
Chamchawala for a while yet, until a theatrical agent shortened his
name for commercial reasons) had begun to be able to name, jackfruit,
banyan, jacaranda, flame of the forest, plane. Small chhooi-mooi touch-
me-not plants grew at the foot of the tree of his own life, the walnut-
tree that Changez had planted with his own hands on the day of the
coming of the son. Father and son at the birth-tree were both awkward,
unable to respond properly to Nasreen's gentle fun. Saladin had been
seized by the melancholy notion that the garden had been a better place
before he knew its names, that something had been lost which he would
never be able to regain. And Changez Chamchawala found that he could
no longer look his son in the eye, because the bitterness he saw came
47
close to freezing his heart. When he spoke, turning roughly away from
the eighteen-year-old walnut in which, at times during their long
separations, he had imagined his only son's soul to reside, the words
came out incorrectly and made him sound like the rigid, cold figure he
had hoped he would never become, and feared he could not avoid.
"Tell your son," Changez boomed at Nasreen, "that if he went abroad
to learn contempt for his own kind, then his own kind can feel nothing
but scorn for him. What is he? A fauntleroy, a grand panjandrum? Is
this my fate: to lose a son and find a freak?"
"Whatever I am, father dear," Saladin told the older man, "I owe it all
to you."
It was their last family chat. All that summer feelings continued to run
high, for all Nasreen's attempts at mediation, _you must apologize to
your father, darling, poor man is suffering like the devil but his pride
won't let him hug you_. Even the ayah Kasturba and the old bearer
Vallabh, her husband, attempted to mediate but neither father nor son
would bend. "Same material is the problem," Kasturba told Nasreen.
"Daddy and sonny, same material, same to same."
When the war with Pakistan began that September Nasreen decided,
with a kind of defiance, that she would not cancel her Friday parties,
"to show that Hindus--Muslims can love as well as hate," she pointed
out. Changez saw a look in her eyes and did not attempt to argue, but
set the servants to putting blackout curtains over all the windows
instead. That night, for the last time, Saladin Chamchawala played his
old role of doorman, dressed up in an English dinner-jacket, and when
the guests came -- the same old guests, dusted with the grey powders of
age but otherwise the same -- they bestowed upon him the same old
pats and kisses, the nostalgic benedictions of his youth. "Look how
grown," they were saying. "Just a darling, what to say." They were all
trying to hide their fear of the war, _danger of air-raids_, the radio said,
48
and when they ruffled Saladin's hair their hands were a little too shaky,
or alternatively a little too rough.
Late that evening the sirens sang and the guests ran for cover, hiding
under beds, in cupboards, anywhere. Nasreen Chamchawala found
herself alone by a food-laden table, and attempted to reassure the
company by standing there in her newsprint sari, munching a piece of
fish as if nothing were the matter. So it was that when she started
choking on the fishbone of her death there was nobody to help her, they
were all crouching in corners with their eyes shut; even Saladin,
conqueror of kippers, Saladin of the England-returned upper lip, had
lost his nerve. Nasreen Chamchawala fell, twitched, gasped, died, and
when the all--clear sounded the guests emerged sheepishly to find their
hostess extinct in the middle of the dining-room, stolen away by the
exterminating angel, khali--pili khalaas, as Bombay--talk has it,
finished off for no reason, gone for good.
Less than a year after the death of Nasreen Chamchawala from her
inability to triumph over fishbones in the manner of her foreign-
educated son, Changez married again without a word of warning to
anyone. Saladin in his English college received a letter from his father
commanding him, in the irritatingly orotund and obsolescent
phraseology that Changez always used in correspondence, to be happy.
"Rejoice," the letter said, "for what is lost is reborn." The explanation
for this somewhat cryptic sentence came lower down in the
aerogramme, and when Saladin learned that his new stepmother was
also called Nasreen, something went wrong in his head, and he wrote
his father a letter full of cruelty and anger, whose violence was of the
type that exists only between fathers and sons, and which differs from
that between daughters and mothers in that there lurks behind it the
possibility of actual, jaw--breaking fisticuffs. Changez wrote back by
return of post; a brief letter, four lines of archaic abuse, cad rotter
49
bounder scoundrel varlet whoreson rogue. "Kindly consider all family
connections irreparably sundered," it concluded. "Consequences your
responsibility."
After a year of silence, Saladin received a further communication, a
letter of forgiveness that was in all particulars harder to take than the
earlier, excommunicatory thunderbolt. "When you become a father, O
my son," Changez Chamchawala confided, "then shall you know those
moments -- ah! Too sweet! -- when, for love, one dandies the bonny
babe upon one's knee; whereupon, without warning or provocation, the
blessed creature -- may I be frank? -- it _wets_ one. Perhaps for a
moment one feels the gorge rising, a tide of anger swells within the
blood -- but then it dies away, as quickly as it came. For do we not, as
adults, understand that the little one is not to blame? He knows not
what he does."
Deeply offended at being compared to a urinating baby, Saladin
maintained what he hoped was a dignified silence. By the time of his
graduation he had acquired a British passport, because he had arrived
in the country just before the laws tightened up, so he was able to
inform Changez in a brief note that he intended to settle down in
London and look for work as an actor. Changez Chamchawala's reply
came by express mail. "Might as well be a confounded gigolo. It's my
belief some devil has got into you and turned your wits. You who have
been given so much: do you not feel you owe anything to anyone? To
your country? To the memory of your dear mother? To your own mind?
Will you spend your life jiggling and preening under bright lights,
kissing blonde women under the gaze of strangers who have paid to
watch your shame? You are no son of mine, but a _ghoul_, a _hoosh_, a
demon up from hell. An actor! Answer me this: what am I to tell my
friends?"
50
And beneath a signature, the pathetic, petulant postscript. "Now that
you have your own bad djinni, do not think you will inherit the magic
lamp."
After that, Changez Chamchawala wrote to his son at irregular
intervals, and in every letter he returned to the theme of demons and
possession: "A man untrue to himself becomes a two-legged lie, and
such beasts are Shaitan's best work," he wrote, and also, in more
sentimental vein: "I have your soul kept safe, my son, here in this
walnut-tree. The devil has only your body. When you are free of him,
return and claim your immortal spirit. It flourishes in the garden."
The handwriting in these letters altered over the years, changing from
the florid confidence that had made it instantly identifiable and
becoming narrower, undecorated, purified. Eventually the letters
stopped, but Saladin heard from other sources that his father's
preoccupation with the supernatural had continued to deepen, until
finally he had become a recluse, perhaps in order to escape this world in
which demons could steal his own son's body, a world unsafe for a man
of true religious faith.
His father's transformation disconcerted Saladin, even at such a great
distance. His parents had been Muslims in the lackadaisical, light
manner of Bombayites; Changez Chamchawala had seemed far more
godlike to his infant son than any Allah. That this father, this profane
deity (albeit now discredited), had dropped to his knees in his old age
and started bowing towards Mecca was hard for his godless son to
accept.
"I blame that witch," he told himself, falling for rhetorical purposes
into the same language of spells and goblins that his father had
commenced to employ. "That Nasreen Two. Is it I who have been the
51
subject of devilment, am I the one possessed? It's not my handwriting
that changed."
The letters didn't come any more. Years passed; and then Saladin
Chamcha, actor, self-made man, returned to Bombay with the Prospero
Players, to interpret the role of the Indian doctor in _The
Millionairess_ by George Bernard Shaw. On stage, he tailored his voice
to the requirements of the part, but those long-suppressed locutions,
those discarded vowels and consonants, began to leak out of his mouth
out of the theatre as well. His voice was betraying him; and he
discovered his component parts to be capable of other treasons, too.
A man who sets out to make himself up is taking on the Creator's role,
according to one way of seeing things; he's unnatural, a blasphemer, an
abomination of abominations. From another angle, you could see
pathos in him, heroism in his struggle, in his willingness to risk: not all
mutants survive. Or, consider him sociopolitically: most migrants learn,
and can become disguises. Our own false descriptions to counter the
falsehoods invented about us, concealing for reasons of security our
secret selves.
A man who Invents himself needs someone to believe in him, to prove
he's managed it. Playing God again, you could say. Or you could come
down a few notches, and think of Tinkerbell; fairies don't exist if
children don't clap their hands. Or you might simply say: it's just like
being a man.
Not only the need to be believed in, but to believe in another. You've
got it: Love.
Saladin Chamcha met Pamela Lovelace five and a half days before the
end of the 1960s, when women still wore bandannas in their hair. She
52
stood at the centre of a room full of Trotskyist actresses and fixed him
with eyes so bright, so bright. He monopolized her all evening and she
never stopped smiling and she left with another man. He went home to
dream of her eyes and smile, the slenderness of her, her skin. He
pursued her for two years. England yields her treasures with reluctance.
He was astonished by his own perseverance, and understood that she
had become the custodian of his destiny, that if she did not relent then
his entire attempt at metamorphosis would fail. "Let me," he begged
her, wrestling politely on her white rug that left him, at his midnight
bus stops, covered in guilty fluff. "Believe me. I'm the one."
One night, _out of the blue_, she let him, she said she believed. He
married her before she could change her mind, but never learned to
read her thoughts. When she was unhappy she would lock herself in the
bedroom until she felt better. "It's none of your business," she told
him. "I don't want anybody to see me when I'm like that." He used to
call her a clam. "Open up," he hammered on all the locked doors of
their lives together, basement first, then maisonette, then mansion. "I
love you, let me in." He needed her so badly, to reassure himself of his
own existence, that he never comprehended the desperation in her
dazzling, permanent smile, the terror in the brightness with which she
faced the world, or the reasons why she hid when she couldn't manage
to beam. Only when it was too late did she tell him that her parents had
committed suicide together when she had just begun to menstruate,
over their heads in gambling debts, leaving her with the aristocratic
bellow of a voice that marked her out as a golden girl, a woman to envy,
whereas in fact she was abandoned, lost, her parents couldn't even be
bothered to wait and watch her grow up, that's how much _she_ was
loved, so of course she had no confidence at all, and every moment she
spent in the world was full of panic, so she smiled and smiled and
maybe once a week she locked the door and shook and felt like a husk,
like an empty peanut-shell, a monkey without a nut.
53
They never managed to have children; she blamed herself. After ten
years Saladin discovered that there was something the matter with some
of his own chromosomes, two sticks too long, or too short, he couldn't
remember. His genetic inheritance; apparently he was lucky to exist,
lucky not to be some sort of deformed freak. Was it his mother or his
father from whom? The doctors couldn't say; he blamed, it's easy to
guess which one, after all, it wouldn't do to think badly of the dead.
They hadn't been getting along lately.
He told himself that afterwards, but not during.
Afterwards, he told himself, we were on the rocks, maybe it was the
missing babies, maybe we just grew away from each other, maybe this,
maybe that.
During, he looked away from all the strain, all the scratchiness, all the
fights that never got going, he closed his eyes and waited until her
smile came back. He allowed himself to believe in that smile, that
brilliant counterfeit of joy.
He tried to invent a happy future for them, to make it come true by
making it up and then believing in it. On his way to India he was
thinking how lucky he was to have her, I'm lucky yes I am don't argue
I'm the luckiest bastard in the world. And: how wonderful it was to
have before him the stretching, shady avenue of years, the prospect of
growing old in the presence of her gentleness.
He had worked so hard and come so close to convincing himself of the
truth of these paltry fictions that when he went to bed with Zeeny Vakil
within forty-eight hours of arriving in Bombay, the first thing he did,
even before they made love, was to faint, to pass out cold, because the
messages reaching his brain were in such serious disagreement with one
54
another, as if his right eye saw the world moving to the left while his
left eye saw it sliding to the right.
Zeeny was the first Indian woman he had ever made love to. She barged
into his dressing-room after the first night of _The Millionairess_, with
her operatic arms and her gravel voice, as if it hadn't been years.
_Years_. "Yaar, what a disappointment, I swear, I sat through the whole
thing just to hear you singing "Goodness Gracious Me" like Peter
Sellers or what, I thought, let's find out if the guy learned to hit a note,
you remember when you did Elvis impersonations with your squash
racket, darling, too hilarious, completely cracked. But what is this?
Song is not in drama. The hell. Listen, can you escape from all these
palefaces and come out with us wogs? Maybe you forgot what that is
like."
He remembered her as a stick-figure of a teenager in a lopsided Quant
hairstyle and an equal-but-oppositely lopsided smile. A rash, bad girl.
Once for the hell of it she walked into a notorious adda, a dive, on
Falkland Road, and sat there smoking a cigarette and drinking Coke
until the pimps who ran the joint threatened to cut her face, no
freelances permitted. She stared them down, finished her cigarette, left.
Fearless. Maybe crazy. Now in her middle thirties she was a qualified
doctor with a consultancy at Breach Candy Hospital, who worked with
the city's homeless, who had gone to Bhopal the moment the news
broke of the invisible American cloud that ate people's eyes and lungs.
She was an art critic whose book on the confining myth of authenticity,
that folkloristic straitjacket which she sought to replace by an ethic of
historically validated eclecticism, for was not the entire national
culture based on the principle of borrowing whatever clothes seemed to
fit, Aryan, Mughal, British, take--the-best-and--leave-the-rest? -- had
created a predictable stink, especially because of its title. She had called
it _The Only Good Indian_. "Meaning, is a dead," she told Chamcha
55
when she gave him a copy. "Why should there be a good, right way of
being a wog? That's Hindu fundamentalism. Actually, we're all bad
Indians. Some worse than others."
She had come into the fullness of her beauty, long hair left loose, and
she was no stick--figure these days. Five hours after she entered his
dressing-room they were in bed, and he passed out. When he awoke she
explained "I slipped you a mickey finn." He never worked out whether
or not she had been telling the truth.
Zeenat Vakil made Saladin her project. "The reclamation of," she
explained. "Mister, we're going to get you back." At times he thought
she intended to achieve this by eating him alive. She made love like a
cannibal and he was her long pork. "Did you know," he asked her, "of
the well-established connection between vegetarianism and the man-
eating impulse?" Zeeny, lunching on his naked thigh, shook her head.
"In certain extreme cases," he went on, "too much vegetable
consumption can release into the system biochemicals that induce
cannibal fantasies." She looked up and smiled her slanting smile.
Zeeny, the beautiful vampire. "Come off it," she said. "We are a nation
of vegetarians, and ours is a peaceful, mystical culture, everybody
knows."
He, for his part, was required to handle with care. The first time he
touched her breasts she spouted hot astounding tears the colour and
consistency of buffalo milk. She had watched her mother die like a bird
being carved for dinner, first the left breast then the right, and still the
cancer had spread. Her fear of repeating her mother's death placed her
chest off limits. Fearless Zeeny's secret terror. She had never had a child
but her eyes wept milk.
After their first lovemaking she started right in on him, the tears
forgotten now. "You know what you are, I'll tell you. A deserter is what,
56
more English than, your Angrez accent wrapped around you like a flag,
and don't think it's so perfect, it slips, baba, like a false moustache."
"There's something strange going on," he wanted to say, "my voice,"
but he didn't know how to put it, and held his tongue.
"People like you," she snorted, kissing his shoulder. "You come back
after so long and think godknowswhat of yourselves. Well, baby, we got
a lower opinion of you." Her smile was brighter than Pamela's. "I see,"
he said to her, "Zeeny, you didn't lose your Binaca smile."
_Binaca_. Where had that come from, the long forgotten toothpaste
advertisement? And the vowel sounds, distinctly unreliable. Watch out,
Chamcha, look out for your shadow. That black fellow creeping up
behind.
On the second night she arrived at the theatre with two friends in tow,
a young Marxist film-maker called George Miranda, a shambling whale
of a man with rolled-up kurta sleeves, a flapping waistcoat bearing
ancient stains, and a surprisingly military moustache with waxed
points; and Bhupen Gandhi, poet and journalist, who had gone
prematurely grey but whose face was baby-innocent until he unleashed
his sly, giggling laugh. "Come on, Salad baba," Zeeny announced.
"We're going to show you the town." She turned to her companions.
"These _Asians_ from foreign got no shame," she declared. "Saladin,
like a bloody lettuce, I ask you."
"There was a TV reporter here some days back," George Miranda said.
"Pink hair. She said her name was Kerleeda. I couldn't work it out."
"Listen, George is too unworldly," Zeeny interrupted. "He doesn't know
what freaks you guys turn into. That Miss Singh, outrageous. I told her,
the name's Khalida, dearie, rhymes with Dalda, that's a cooking
medium. But she couldn't say it. Her own name. Take me to your
57
kerleader. You types got no culture. Just wogs now. Ain't it the truth?"
she added, suddenly gay and round-eyed, afraid she'd gone too far.
"Stop bullying him, Zeenat," Bhupen Gandhi said in his quiet voice.
And George, awkwardly, mumbled: "No offence, man. Joke-shoke."
Chamcha decided to grin and then fight back. "Zeeny," he said, "the
earth is full of Indians, you know that, we get everywhere, we become
tinkers in Australia and our heads end up in Idi Amin's fridge.
Columbus was right, maybe; the world's made up of Indies, East, West,
North. Damn it, you should be proud of us, our enterprise, the way we
push against frontiers. Only thing is, we're not Indian like you. You
better get used to us. What was the name of that book you wrote?"
"Listen," Zeeny put her arm through his. "Listen to my Salad. Suddenly
he wants to be Indian after spending his life trying to turn white. All is
not lost, you see. Something in there still alive." And Chamcha felt
himself flushing, felt the confusion mounting. India; it jumbled things
up.
"For Pete's sake," she added, knifing him with a kiss. "_Chamcha_. I
mean, fuck it. You name yourself Mister Toady and you expect us not to
laugh."
In Zeeny's beaten--up Hindustan, a car built for a servant culture, the
back seat better upholstered than the front, he felt the night closing in
on him like a crowd. India, measuring him against her forgotten
immensity, her sheer presence, the old despised disorder. An Amazonic
hijra got up like an Indian Wonder Woman, complete with silver
trident, held up the traffic with one imperious arm, sauntered in front
of them. Chamcha stared into herhis glaring eyes. Gibreel Farishta, the
movie star who had unaccountably vanished from view, rotted on the
hoardings. Rubble, litter, noise. Cigarette advertisements smoking past:
58
SCISSORS -- FOR THE MAN OF ACTION, SATISFACTION. And, more
improbably: PANAMA - PART OF THE GREAT INDIAN SCENE.
"Where are we going?" The night had acquired the quality of green
neon strip — lighting. Zeeny parked the car. "You're lost," she accused
him. "What do you know about Bombay? Your own city, only it never
was. To you, it's a dream of childhood. Growing up on Scandal Point is
like living on the moon. No bustees there, no sirree, only servants'
quarters. Did Shiv Sena elements come there to make communal
trouble? Were your neighbours starving in the textile strike? Did Datta
Samant stage a rally in front of your bungalows? How old were you
when you met a trade unionist? How old the first time you got on a
local train instead of a car with driver? That wasn't Bombay, darling,
excuse me. That was Wonderland, Peristan, NeverNever, Oz."
"And you?" Saladin reminded her. "Where were you back then?"
"Same place," she said fiercely. "With all the other bloody Munchkins."
Back streets. A Jain temple was being re--painted and all the saints were
in plastic bags to protect them from the drips. A pavement magazine
vendor displayed newspapers full of horror: a railway disaster. Bhupcn
Gandhi began to speak in his mild whisper. After the accident, he said,
the surviving passengers swam to the shore (the train had plunged off a
bridge) and were met by local villagers, who pushed them under the
water until they drowned and then looted their bodies.
"Shut your face," Zeeny shouted at him. "Why are you telling him such
things? Already he thinks we're savages, a lower form."
A shop was selling sandalwood to burn in a nearby Krishna temple and
sets of enamelled pink-and-white Krishna--eyes that saw everything.
"Too damn much to see," Bhupen said. "That is fact of matter."
59
In a crowded dhaba that George had started frequenting when he was
making contact, for movie purposes, with the dadas or bosses who ran
the city's flesh trade, dark rum was consumed at aluminium tables and
George and Bhupen started, a little boozily, to quarrel. Zeeny drank
Thums Up Cola and denounced her friends to Chamcha. "Drinking
problems, both of them, broke as old pots, they both mistreat their
wives, sit in dives, waste their stinking lives. No wonder I fell for you,
sugar, when the local product is so low grade you get to like goods from
foreign."
George had gone with Zeeny to Bhopal and was becoming noisy on the
subject of the catastrophe, interpreting it ideologically. "What is
Amrika for us?" he demanded. "It's not a real place. Power in its purest
form, disembodied, invisible. We can't see it but it screws us totally, no
escape." He compared the Union Carbide company to the Trojan Horse.
"We invited the bastards in." It was like the story of the forty thieves,
he said. Hiding in their amphoras and waiting for the night. "We had
no Ali Baba, misfortunately, " he cried. "Who did we have? Mr. Rajiv G."
At this point Bhupen Gandhi stood up abruptly, unsteadily, and began,
as though possessed, as though a spirit were upon him, to testify. "For
me," he said, "the issue cannot be foreign intervention. We always
forgive ourselves by blaming outsiders, America, Pakistan, any damn
place. Excuse me, George, but for me it all goes back to Assam, we have
to start with that." The massacre of the innocents. Photographs of
children's corpses, arranged neatly in lines like soldiers on parade. They
had been clubbed to death, pelted with stones, their necks cut in half by
knives. Those neat ranks of death, Chamcha remembered. As if only
horror could sting India into orderliness.
Bhupen spoke for twenty-nine minutes without hesitations or pauses.
"We are all guilty of Assam," he said. "Each person of us. Unless and
until we face it, that the children's deaths were our fault, we cannot call
ourselves a civilized people." He drank rum quickly as he spoke, and his
60
voice got louder, and his body began to lean dangerously, but although
the room fell silent nobody moved towards him, nobody tried to stop
him talking, nobody called him a drunk. In the middle of a sentence,
_everyday blindings, or shootings, or corruptions, who do we think we_,
he sat down heavily and stared into his glass.
Now a young man stood up in a far corner of the joint and argued back.
Assam had to be understood politically, he cried, there were economic
reasons, and yet another fellow came to his feet to reply, cash matters
do not explain why a grown man clubs a little girl to death, and then
another fellow said, if you think that, you have never been hungry,
salah, how bloody romantic to suppose economics cannot make men
into beasts. Chamcha clutched at his glass as the noise level rose, and
the air seemed to thicken, gold teeth flashed in his face, shoulders
rubbed against his, elbows nudged, the air was turning into soup, and
in his chest the irregular palpitations had begun. George grabbed him
by the wrist and dragged him out into the street. "You okay, man? You
were turning green." Saladin nodded his thanks, gasped in lungfuls of
the night, calmed down. "Rum and exhaustion," he said. "I have the
peculiar habit of getting my nerves after the show. Quite often I get
wobbly. Should have known." Zeeny was looking at him, and there was
more in her eyes than sympathy. A glittering look, triumphant, hard.
_Something got through to you_, her expression gloated. _About
bloody time_.
After you recover from typhoid, Chamcha reflected, you remain immune
to the disease for ten years or so. But nothing is forever; eventually the
antibodies vanish from your blood. He had to accept the fact that his
blood no longer contained the immunizing agents that would have
enabled him to suffer India's reality. Rum, heart palpitations, a
sickness of the spirit. Time for bed.
She wouldn't take him to her place. Always and only the hotel, with the
gold-medallioned young Arabs strutting in the midnight corridors
61
holding bottles of contraband whisky. He lay on the bed with his shoes
on, his collar and tie loose, his right arm flung across his eyes; she, in
the hotel's white bathrobe, bent over him and kissed his chin. "I'll tell
you what happened to you tonight," she said. "You could say we
cracked your shell."
He sat up, angry. "Well, this is what's inside," he blazed at her. "An
Indian translated into English-medium. When I attempt Hindustani
these days, people look polite. This is me." Caught in the aspic of his
adopted language, he had begun to hear, in India's Babel, an ominous
warning: don't come back again. When you have stepped through the
looking-glass you step back at your peril. The mirror may cut you to
shreds.
"I was so proud of Bhupen tonight," Zeeny said, getting into bed. "In
how many countries could you go into some bar and start up a debate
like that? The passion, the seriousness, the respect. You keep your
civilization, Toadji; I like this one plenty fine."
"Give up on me," he begged her. "I don't like people dropping in to see
me without warning, I have forgotten the rules of seven--tiles and
kabaddi, I can't recite my prayers, I don't know what should happen at
a nikah ceremony, and in this city where I grew up I get lost if I'm on
my own. This isn't home. It makes me giddy because it feels like home
and is not. It makes my heart tremble and my head spin."
"You're a stupid," she shouted at him. "A stupid. Change back! Damn
fool! Of course you can." She was a vortex, a siren, tempting him back
to his old self. But it was a dead self, a shadow, a ghost, and he would
not become a phantom. There was a return ticket to London in his
wallet, and he was going to use it.
62
"You never married," he said when they both lay sleepless in the small
hours. Zeeny snorted. "You've really been gone too long. Can't you see
me? I'm a blackie." Arching her back and throwing off the sheet to
show off her lavishness. When the bandit queen Phoolan Devi came out
of the ravines to surrender and be photographed, the newspapers at
once uncreated their own myth of her _legendary beauty_. She became
_plain, a common creature, unappetizing_ where she had been
_toothsome_. Dark skin in north India. "I don't buy it," Saladin said.
"You don't expect me to believe that."
She laughed. "Good, you're not a complete idiot yet. Who needs to
marry? I had work to do."
And after a pause, she threw his question back at him. _So, then. And
you?_
Not only married, but rich. "So tell, na. How you live, you and the
mame." In a five-storey mansion in Notting Hill. He had started feeling
insecure there of late, because the most recent batch of burglars had
taken not only the usual video and stereo but also the wolfhound guard
dog. It was not possible, he had begun to feel, to live in a place where
the criminal elements kidnapped the animals. Pamela told him it was an
old local custom. In the Olden Days, she said (history, for Pamela, was
divided into the Ancient Era, the Dark Ages, the Olden Days, the British
Empire, the Modern Age and the Present), petnapping was good
business. The poor would steal the canines of the rich, train them to
forget their names, and sell them back to their grieving, helpless owners
in shops on Portobello Road. Pamela's local history was always detailed
and frequently unreliable. "But, my God," Zeeny Vakil said, "you must
sell up pronto and move. I know those English, all the same, riff-raff
and nawabs. You can't fight their bloody traditions."
63
_My wife, Pamela Lovelace, frail as porcelain, graceful as gazelles_, he
remembered. _I put down roots in the women I love_. The banalities of
infidelity. He put them away and talked about his work.
When Zeeny Vakil found out how Saladin Chamcha made his money,
she let fly a series of shrieks that made one of the medallioned Arabs
knock at the door to make sure everything was all right. He saw a
beautiful woman sitting up in bed with what looked like buffalo milk
running down her face and dripping off the point of her chin, and,
apologizing to Chamcha for the intrusion, he withdrew hastily, _sorry,
sport, hey, you're some lucky guy_.
"You poor potato," Zeeny gasped between peals of laughter. "Those
Angrez bastards. They really screwed you up."
So now his work was funny. "I have a gift for accents," he said
haughtily. "Why I shouldn't employ?"
"'Why I should not employ?_'" she mimicked him, kicking her legs in
the air. "Mister actor, your moustache just slipped again."
Oh my God.
What's happening to me?
What the devil?
Help.
Because he did have that gift, truly he did, he was the Man of a
Thousand Voices and a Voice. If you wanted to know how your ketchup
bottle should talk in its television commercial, if you were unsure as to
the ideal voice for your packet of garlicflavoured crisps, he was your
very man. He made carpets speak in warehouse advertisements, he did
celebrity impersonations, baked beans, frozen peas. On the radio he
64
could convince an audience that he was Russian, Chinese, Sicilian, the
President of the United States. Once, in a radio play for thirty--seven
voices, he interpreted every single part under a variety of pseudonyms
and nobody ever worked it out. With his female equivalent, Mimi
Mamoulian, he ruled the airwaves of Britain. They had such a large slice
of the voiceover racket that, as Mimi said, "People better not mention
the Monopolies Commission around us, not even in fun." Her range was
astonishing; she could do any age, anywhere in the world, any point on
the vocal register, angelic Juliet to fiendish Mae West. "We should get
married sometime, when you're free," Mimi once suggested to him.
"You and me, we could be the United Nations."
"You're Jewish," he pointed out. "I was brought up to have views on
Jews."
"So I'm Jewish," she shrugged. "You're the one who's circumcised.
Nobody's perfect."
Mimi was tiny with tight dark curls and looked like a Michelin poster.
In Bombay, Zeenat Vakil stretched and yawned and drove other women
from his thoughts. "Too much," she laughed at him. "They pay you to
imitate them, as long as they don't have to look at you. Your voice
becomes famous but they hide your face. Got any ideas why? Warts on
your nose, cross--eyes, what? Anything come to mind, baby? You
goddamn lettuce brain, I swear."
It was true, he thought. Saladin and Mimi were legends of a sort, but
crippled legends, dark stars. The gravitational field of their abilities
drew work towards them, but they remained invisible, shedding bodies
to put on voices. On the radio, Mimi could become the Botticelli Venus,
she could be Olympia, Monroe, any damn woman she pleased. She
didn't give a damn about the way she looked; she had become her voice,
she was worth a mint, and three young women were hopelessly in love
with her. Also, she bought property. "Neurotic behaviour," she would
65
confess unashamedly. "Excessive need for rooting owing to upheavals of
Armenian—Jewish history. Some desperation owing to advancing years
and small polyps detected in the throat. Property is so soothing, I do
recommend it." She owned a Norfolk vicarage, a farmhouse in
Normandy, a Tuscan belltower, a sea--coast in Bohemia. "All haunted,"
she explained. "Clanks, howls, blood on the rugs, women in nighties,
the works. Nobody gives up land without a fight."
Nobody except me, Chamcha thought, a melancholy clutching at him as
he lay beside Zeenat Vakil. Maybe I'm a ghost already. But at least a
ghost with an airline ticket, success, money, wife. A shade, but living in
the tangible, material world. With _assets_. Yes, sir.
Zeeny stroked the hairs curling over his ears. "Sometimes, when you're
quiet," she murmured, "when you aren't doing funny voices or acting
grand, and when you forget people are watching, you look just like a
blank. You know? An empty slate, nobody home. It makes me mad,
sometimes, I want to slap you. To sting you back into life. But I also get
sad about it. Such a fool, you, the big star whose face is the wrong
colour for their colour T Vs, who has to travel to wogland with some
two-bit company, playing the babu part on top of it, just to get into a
play. They kick you around and still you stay, you love them, bloody
slave mentality, I swear. Chamcha," she grabbed his shoulders and
shook him, sitting astride him with her forbidden breasts a few inches
from his face, "Salad baba, whatever you call yourself, for Pete's sake
_come home_."
His big break, the one that could soon make money lose its meaning,
had started small: children's television, a thing called _The Aliens
Show_, by _The Munsters_ out of _Star Wars_ by way of _Sesame
Street_. It was a situation comedy about a group of extraterrestrials
ranging from cute to psycho, from animal to vegetable, and also
mineral, because it featured an artistic space-- rock that could quarry
itself for its raw material, and then regenerate itself in time for the next
66
week's episode; this rock was named Pygmalien, and owing to the
stunted sense of humour of the show's producers there was also a
coarse, belching creature like a puking cactus that came from a desert
planet at the end of time: this was Matilda, the Australien, and there
were the three grotesquely pneumatic, singing space sirens known as
the Alien Korns, maybe because you could lie down among them, and
there was a team of Venusian hip-hoppers and subway spraypainters
and soul-brothers who called themselves the Alien Nation, and under a
bed in the spaceship that was the programme's main location there
lived Bugsy the giant dung-beetle from the Crab Nebula who had run
away from his father, and in a fish-tank you could find Brains the
super-intelligent giant abalone who liked eating Chinese, and then
there was Ridley, the most terrifying of the regular cast, who looked
like a Francis Bacon painting" of a mouthful of teeth waving at the end
of a sightless pod, and who had an obsession with the actress Sigourney
Weaver. The stars of the show, its Kermit and Miss Piggy, were the very
fashionable, slinkily attired, stunningly hairstyled duo, Maxim and
Mamma Alien, who yearned to be -- what else? -- television
personalities. They were played by Saladin Chamcha and Mimi
Mamoulian, and they changed their voices along with their clothes, to
say nothing of their hair, which could go from purple to vermilion
between shots, which could stand diagonally three feet up from their
heads or vanish altogether; or their features and limbs, because they
were capable of changing all of them, switching legs, arms, noses, ears,
eyes, and every switch conjured up a different accent from their
legendary, protean gullets. What made the show a hit was its use of the
latest computer-generated imagery. The backgrounds were all
simulated: spaceship, other--world landscapes, intergalactic game-show
studios; and the actors, too, were processed through machines, obliged
to spend four hours every day being buried under the latest in
prosthetic make-up which -- once the videocomputers had gone to work
-- made them look just like simulations, too. Maxim Alien, space
playboy, and Mamma, undefeated galactic wrestling champion and
67
universal all--corners pasta queen, were overnight sensations. Prime-
time beckoned; America, Eurovision, the world.
As _The Aliens Show_ got bigger it began to attract political criticism.
Conservatives attacked it for being too frightening, too sexually explicit
(Ridley could become positively erect when he thought too hard about
Miss Weaver), too _weird_. Radical commentators began to attack its
stereotyping, its reinforcement of the idea of aliens-as-freaks, its lack of
positive images. Charncha came under pressure to quit the show;
refused; became a target. "Trouble waiting when I go home," he told
Zeeny. "The damn show isn't an allegory. It's an entertainment. It aims
to please."
"To please whom?" she wanted to know. "Besides, even now they only
let you on the air after they cover your face with rubber and give you a
red wig. Big deal deluxe, say I."
"The point is," she said when they awoke the next morning, "Salad
darling, you really are good looking, no quesch. Skin like milk, England
returned. Now that Gibreel has done a bunk, you could be next in line.
I'm serious, yaar. They need a new face. Come home and you could be
the next, bigger than Bachchan was, bigger than Farishta. Your face
isn't as funny as theirs."
When he was young, he told her, each phase of his life, each self he tried
on, had seemed reassuringly temporary. Its imperfections didn't matter,
because he could easily replace one moment by the next, one Saladin by
another. Now, however, change had begun to feel painful; the arteries of
the possible had begun to harden. "It isn't easy to tell you this, but I'm
married now, and not just to wife but life." _The accent slippage
again_. "I really came to Bombay for one reason, and it wasn't the play.
He's in his late seventies now, and I won't have many more chances. He
hasn't been to the show; Muhammad must go to the mountain."
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_My father, Changez Chamchawala, owner of a magic lamp_. "Changez
Chamchawala, are you kidding, don't think you can leave me behind,"
she clapped her hands. "I want to check out the hair and toenails." His
father, the famous recluse. Bombay was a culture of re--makes. Its
architecture mimicked the skyscraper, its cinema endlessly re-invented
_The Magnificent Seven_ and _Love Story_, obliging all its heroes to
save at least one village from murderous dacoits and all its heroines to
die of leukaemia at least once in their careers, preferably at the start. Its
millionaires, too, had taken to importing their lives. Changez's
invisibility was an Indian dream of the crorepati penthoused wretch of
Las Vegas; but a dream was not a photograph, after all, and Zeeny
wanted to see with her own eyes. "He makes faces at people if he's in a
bad mood," Saladin warned her. "Nobody believes it till it happens, but
it's true. Such faces! Gargoyles. Also, he's a prude and he'll call you a
tart and anyway I'll probably have a fight with him, it's on the cards."
What Saladin Chamcha had come to India for: forgiveness. That was his
business in his old home town. But whether to give or to receive, he was
not able to say.
Bizarre aspects of the present circumstances of Mr. Changez
Chamchawala: with his new wife, Nasreen the Second, he lived for five
days every week in a high-walled compound nicknamed the Red Fort in
the Pali Hill district beloved of movie stars; but every weekend he
returned without his wife to the old house at Scandal Point, to spend
his days of rest in the lost world of the past, in the company of the first,
and dead, Nasreen. Furthermore: it was said that his second wife
refused to set foot in the old place. "Or isn't allowed to," Zeeny
hypothesized in the back of the black-glass-windowed Mercedes
limousine which Changez had sent to collect his son. As Saladin
finished filling in the background, Zeenat Vakil whistled appreciatively.
"Crazee."
69
The Chamchawala fertilizer business, Changez's empire ofdung, was to
be investigated for tax fraud and import duty evasion by a Government
commission, but Zeeny wasn't interested in that. "Now," she said, "I'll
get to find out what you're really like."
Scandal Point unfurled before them. Saladin felt the past rush in like a
tide, drowning him, filling his lungs with its revenant saltiness. _I'm
not myself today_, he thought. The heart flutters. Life damages the
living. None of us are ourselves. None of us are _like this_.
These days there were steel gates, operated by remote control from
within, sealing the crumbling triumphal arch. They opened with a slow
whirring sound to admit Saladin into that place of lost time. When he
saw the walnut-tree in which his father had claimed that his soul was
kept, his hands began to shake. He hid behind the neutrality of facts.
"In Kashmir," he told Zeeny, "your birth-tree is a financial investment
of a sort. When a child comes of age, the grown walnut is comparable to
a matured insurance policy; it's a valuable tree, it can be sold, to pay for
weddings, or a start in life. The adult chops down his childhood to help
his grown-up self. The unsentimentality is appealing, don't you think?"
The car had stopped under the entrance porch. Zeeny fell silent as the
two of them climbed the six stairs to the front door, where they were
greeted by a composed and ancient bearer in white, brass-buttoned
livery, whose shock of white hair Chamcha suddenly recognized, by
translating it back into black, as the mane of that same Vallabh who
had presided over the house as its major-domo in the Olden Days. "My
God, Vallabhbhai," he managed, and embraced the old man. The servant
smiled a difficult smile. "I grow so old, baba, I was thinking you would
not recognize." He led them down the crystal-heavy corridors of the
mansion and Saladin realized that the lack of change was excessive, and
plainly deliberate. It was true, Vallabh explained to him, that when the
Begum died Changez Sahib had sworn that the house would be her
memorial. As a result nothing had changed since the day she died,
70
paintings, furniture, soap--dishes, the red-glass figures of fighting bulls
and china ballerinas from Dresden, all left in their exact positions, the
same magazines on the same tables, the same crumpled balls of paper in
the wastebaskets, as though the house had died, too, and been
embalmed. "Mummified," Zeeny said, voicing the unspeakable as usual.
"God, but it's spooky, no?" It was at this point, while Vallabh the
bearer was opening the double doors leading into the blue
drawingroom, that Saladin Chamcha saw his mother's ghost.
He let out a loud cry and Zeeny whirled on her heel. "There," he
pointed towards the far, darkened end of the hallway, "no question,
that blasted newsprint sari, the big headlines, the one she wore the day
she, she," but now Vallabh had begun to flap his arms like a weak,
flightless bird, you see, baba, it was only Kasturba, you have not
forgotten, my wife, only my wife. _My ayah Kasturba with whom I
played in rock-pools. Until I grew up and went without her and in a
hollow a man with ivory glasses_. "Please, baba, nothing to be cross,
only when the Begum died Changez Sahib donated to my wife some few
garments, you do not object? Your mother was a so-generous woman,
when alive she always gave with an open hand." Chamcha, recovering
his equilibrium, was feeling foolish. "For God's sake, Vallabh," he
muttered. "For God's sake. Obviously I don't object." An old stiffness
re-entered Vallabh; the right to free speech of the old retainer permitted
him to reprove, "Excuse, baba, but you should not blaspheme."
"See how he's sweating," Zeeny stage-whispered. "He looks scared
stiff." Kasturba entered the room, and although her reunion with
Chamcha was warm enough there was still a wrongness in the air.
Vallabh left to bring beer and Thums Up, and when Kasturba also
excused herself, Zeeny at once said: "Something fishy. She walks like
she owns the dump. The way she holds herself. And the old man was
afraid. Those two are up to something, I bet." Chamcha tried to be
reasonable. "They stay here alone most of the time, probably sleep in
71
the master bedroom and eat off the good plates, it must get to feeling
like their place." But he was thinking how strikingly, in that old sari,
his ayah Kasturba had come to resemble his mother.
"Stayed away so long," his father's voice spoke behind him, "that now
you can't tell a living ayah from your departed ma."
Saladin turned around to take in the melancholy sight of a father who
had shrivelled like an old apple, but who insisted nevertheless on
wearing the expensive Italian suits of his opulently fleshy years. Now
that he had lost both Popeye-forearms and Bluto-belly, he seemed to be
roaming about inside his clothes like a man in search of something he
had not quite managed to identify. He stood in the doorway looking at
his son, his nose and lips curled, by the withering sorcery of the years,
into a feeble simulacrum of his former ogre--face. Chamcha had barely
begun to understand that his father was no longer capable of
frightening anybody, that his spell had been broken and he was just an
old geezer heading for the grave; while Zeeny had noted with some
disappointment that Changez Chamchawala's hair was conservatively
short, and since he was wearing highly polished Oxford lace-ups it
didn't seem likely that the eleveninch toenail story was true either;
when the ayah Kasturba returned, smoking a cigarette, and strolled past
the three of them, father son mistress, towards a blue velour-covered
button-backed Chesterfield sofa, upon which she arranged her body as
sensually as any movie starlet, even though she was a woman well
advanced in years.
No sooner had Kasturba completed her shocking entrance than
Changez skipped past his son and planted himself beside the erstwhile
ayah. Zeeny Vakil, her eyes sparkling with scandalpoints of light, hissed
at Chamcha: "Close your mouth, dear. It looks bad." And in the
doorway, the bearer Vallabh, pushing a drinks trolley, watched
unemotionally while his employer of many long years placed an arm
around his uncomplaining wife.
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When the progenitor, the creator is revealed as satanic, the child will
frequently grow prim. Chamcha heard himself inquire: "And my
stepmother, father dear? She is keeping well?"
The old man addressed Zeeny. "He is not such a goody with you, I hope
so. Or what a sad time you must have." Then to his son in harsher
tones. "You have an interest in my wife these days? But she has none in
you. She won't meet you now. Why should she forgive? You are no son
to her. Or, maybe, by now, to me."
_I did not come to fight him. Look, the old goat. I mustn't fight. But
this, this is intolerable_. "In my mother's house," Chamcha cried
melodramatically, losing his battle with himself. "The state thinks your
business is corrupt, and here is the corruption of your soul. Look what
you've done to them. Vallabh and Kasturba. With your money. How
much did it take? To poison their lives. You're a sick man." He stood
before his father, blazing with righteous rage.
Vallabh the bearer, unexpectedly, intervened. "Baba, with respect,
excuse me but what do you know? You have left and gone and now you
come to judge us." Saladin felt the floor giving way beneath his feet; he
was staring into the inferno. "It is true he pays us," Vallabh went on.
"For our work, and also for what you see. For this." Changez
Chamchawala tightened his grip on the ayah's unresisting shoulders.
"How much?" Chamcha shouted. "Vallabh, how much did you two men
decide upon? How much to prostitute your wife?"
"What a fool," Kasturba said contemptuously. "Englandeducated and
what-all, but still with a head full of hay. You come talking so big--big,
_in your mother's house_ etcetera, but maybe you didn't love her so
much. But we loved her, we all. We three. And in this manner we may
keep her spirit alive."
73
"It is pooja, you could say," came Vallabh's quiet voice. "An act of
worship."
"And you," Changez Chamchawala spoke as softly as his servant, "you
come here to this temple. With your unbelief. Mister, you've got a
nerve."
And finally, the treason of Zeenat Vakil. "Come off it, Salad," she said,
moving to sit on the arm of the Chesterfield next to the old man. "Why
be such a sourpuss? You're no angel, baby, and these people seem to
have worked things out okay."
Saladin's mouth opened and shut. Changez patted Zeeny on the knee.
"He came to accuse, dear. He came to avenge his youth, but we have
turned the tables and he is confused. Now we must let him have his
chance, and you must referee. I will not be sentenced by him, but I will
accept the worst from you."
_The bastard. Old bastard. He wanted me off-balance, and here 1 am,
knocked sideways. I won't speak, why should I, not like this, the
humiliation_. "There was," said Saladin Chamcha, "a wallet of pounds,
and there was a roasted chicken."
Of what did the son accuse the father? Of everything: espionage on
child-self, rainbow-pot-stealing, exile. Of turning him into what he
might not have become. Of making-a-man of. Of whatwill-I-tell-my-
friends. Of irreparable sunderings and offensive forgiveness. Of
succumbing to Allah-worship with new wife and also to blasphemous
worship of late spouse. Above all, of magic-lampism, of being an open-
sesamist. Everything had come easily to him, charm, women, wealth,
power, position. Rub, poof, genie, wish, at once master, hey presto. He
was a father who had promised, and then withheld, a magic lamp.
74
Changez, Zeeny, Vallabh, Kasturba remained motionless and silent until
Saladin Chamcha came to a flushed, embarrassed halt. "Such violence
of the spirit after so long," Changez said after a silence. "So sad. A
quarter of a century and still the son begrudges the peccadilloes of the
past. O my son. You must stop carrying me around like a parrot on your
shoulder. What am I? Finished. I'm not your Old Man of the Sea. Face
it, mister: I don't explain you any more."
Through a window Saladin Chamcha caught sight of a fortyyear-old
walnut-tree. "Cut it down," he said to his father. "Cut it, sell it, send
me the cash."
Chamchawala rose to his feet, and extended his right hand. Zeeny, also
rising, took it like a dancer accepting a bouquet; at once, Vallabh and
Kasturba diminished into servants, as if a clock had silently chimed
pumpkin-time. "Your book," he said to Zeeny. "I have something you'd
like to see."
The two of them left the room; impotent Saladin, after a moment's
floundering, stamped petulantly in their wake. "Sourpuss," Zeeny
called gaily over her shoulder. "Come on, snap out of it, grow up."
The Chamchawala art collection, housed here at Scandal Point,
included a large group of the legendary _Hamza-nama_ cloths, members
of that sixteenth-century sequence depicting scenes from the life of a
hero who may or may not have been the same Hamza as the famous one,
Muhammad's uncle whose liver was eaten by the Meccan woman Hind
as he lay dead on the battlefield of Uhud. "I like these pictures,"
Changez Chamchawala told Zeeny, "because the hero is permitted to
fail. See how often he has to be rescued from his troubles." The pictures
also provided eloquent proof of Zeeny Vakil's thesis about the eclectic,
hybridized nature of the Indian artistic tradition. The Mughals had
75
brought artists from every part of India to work on the paintings;
individual identity was submerged to create a many-headed, many-
brushed Overartist who, literally, _was_ Indian painting. One hand
would draw the mosaic floors, a second the figures, a third would paint
the Chinese-looking cloudy skies. On the backs of the cloths were the
stories that accompanied the scenes. The pictures would be shown like a
movie: held up while someone read out the hero's tale. In the _Hamza-
nama_ you could see the Persian miniature fusing with Kannada and
Keralan painting styles, you could see Hindu and Muslim philosophy
forming their characteristically late--Mughal synthesis.
A giant was trapped in a pit and his human tormentors were spearing
him in the forehead. A man sliced vertically from the top of his head to
his groin still held his sword as he fell. Everywhere, bubbling spillages
of blood. Saladin Chamcha took a grip on himself. "The savagery," he
said loudly in his English voice. "The sheer barbaric love of pain."
Changez Chamchawala ignored his son, had eyes only for Zeeny; who
gazed straight back into his own. "Ours is a government of philistines,
young lady, don't you agree? I have offered this whole collection free
gratis, did you know? Let them only house it properly, let them build a
place. Condition of cloths is not A-l, you see . . . they won't do it. No
interest. Meanwhile I get offers every month from Amrika. Offers of
what-what size! You wouldn't believe. I don't sell. Our heritage, my
dear, every day the U S A is taking it away. Ravi Varma paintings,
Chandela bronzes, Jaisalmer lattices. We sell ourselves, isn't it? They
drop their wallets on the ground and we kneel at their feet. Our Nandi
bulls end up in some gazebo in Texas. But you know all this. You know
India is a free country today." He stopped, but Zeeny waited; there was
more to come. It came: "One day I will also take the dollars. Not for the
money. For the pleasure of being a whore. Of becoming nothing. Less
than nothing." And now, at last, the real storm, the words behind the
words, _less than nothing_. "When I die," Changez Chamchawala said
76
co Zeeny, "what will I be? A pair of emptied shoes. That is my fate, that
he has made for me. This actor. This pretender. He has made himself
into an imitator of non-existing men. I have nobody to follow me, to
give what I have made. This is his revenge: he steals from me my
posterity." He smiled, patted her hand, released her into the care of his
son. "I have told her," he said to Saladin. "You are still carrying your
take-away chicken. I have told her my complaint. Now she must judge.
That was the arrangement."
Zeenat Vakil walked up to the old man in his outsize suit, put her
hands on his cheeks, and kissed him on the lips.
After Zeenat betrayed him in the house of his father's perversions,
Saladin Chamcha refused to see her or answer the messages she left at
the hotel desk. _The Millionairess_ came to the end of its run; the tour
was over. Time to go home. After the closing-night party Chamcha
headed for bed. In the elevator a young and clearly honeymooning
couple were listening to music on headphones. The young man
murmured to his wife: "Listen, tell me. Do I still seem a stranger to you
sometimes?" The girl, smiling fondly, shook her head, _can't hear_,
removed the headphones. He repeated, gravely: "A stranger, to you,
don't I still sometimes seem?" She, with unfaltering smile, laid her
cheek for an instant on his high scrawny shoulder. "Yes, once or twice,"
she said, and put the headphones on again. He did the same, seeming
fully satisfied by her answer. Their bodies took on, once again, the
rhythms of the playback music. Chamcha got out of the lift. Zeeny was
sitting on the floor with her back against his door.
Inside the room, she poured herself a large whisky and soda. "Behaving
like a baby," she said. "You should be ashamed."
77
That afternoon he had received a package from his father. Inside it was
a small piece of wood and a large number of notes, not rupees but
sterling pounds: the ashes, so to speak, of a walnut-tree. He was full of
inchoate feeling and because Zeenat had turned up she became the
target. "You think I love you?" he said, speaking with deliberate
viciousness. "You think I'll stay with you? I'm a married man."
"I didn't want you to stay for me," she said. "For some reason, I wanted
it for you."
A few days earlier, he had been to see an Indian dramatization of a story
by Sartre on the subject of shame. In the original, a husband suspects
his wife of infidelity and sets a trap to catch her out. He pretends to
leave on a business trip, but returns a few hours later to spy on her. He
is kneeling to look through the keyhole of their front door. Then he
feels a presence behind him, turns without rising, and there she is,
looking down at him with revulsion and disgust. This tableau, he
kneeling, she looking down, is the Sartrean archetype. But in the Indian
version the kneeling husband felt no presence behind him; was
surprised by the wife; stood to face her on equal terms; blustered and
shouted; until she wept, he embraced her, and they were reconciled.
"You say I should be ashamed," Chamcha said bitterly to Zeenat. "You,
who are without shame. As a matter of fact, this may be a national
characteristic. I begin to suspect that Indians lack the necessary moral
refinement for a true sense of tragedy, and therefore cannot really
understand the idea of shame."
Zeenat Vakil finished her whisky. "Okay, you don't have to say any
more." She held up her hands. "I surrender. I'm going. Mr. Saladin
Chamcha. I thought you were still alive, only just, but still breathing,
but I was wrong. Turns out you were dead all the time."
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And one more thing before going milk-eyed through the door. "Don't
let people get too close to you, Mr. Saladin. Let people through your
defences and the bastards go and knife you in the heart."
After that there had been nothing to stay for. The aeroplane lifted and
banked over the city. Somewhere below him, his father was dressing up
a servant as his dead wife. The new traffic scheme had jammed the city
centre solid. Politicians were trying to build careers by going on
padyatras, pilgrimages on foot across the country. There were graffiti
that read: _Advice to politicos. Only step to take: padyatra to hell_. Or,
sometimes: _to Assam_.
Actors were getting mixed up in politics: MGR, N.T. Rama Rao,
Bachchan. Durga Khote complained that an actors' association was a
"red front". Saladin Chamcha, on Flight 420, closed his eyes; and felt,
with deep relief, the tell--tale shiftings and settlings in his throat which
indicated that his voice had begun of its own accord to revert to its
reliable, English self.
The first disturbing thing that happened to Mr. Chamcha on that flight
was that he recognized, among his fellow-passengers, the woman of his
dreams.
The dream-woman had been shorter and less graceful than the real one,
but the instant Chamcha saw her walking calmly up and down the aisles
of _Bostan_ he remembered the nightmare. After Zeenat Vakil's
departure he had fallen into a troubled sleep, and the premonition had
come to him: the vision of a woman bomber with an almost inaudibly
soft, Canadian-accented voice whose depth and melody made it sound
like an ocean heard from a long way away. The dream-woman had been
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so loaded down with explosives that she was not so much the bomber as
the bomb; the woman walking the aisles held a baby that seemed to be
sleeping noiselessly, a baby so skilfully swaddled and held so close to
the breast that Chamcha could not see so much as a lock of new-born
hair. Under the influence of the remembered dream he conceived the
notion that the baby was in fact a bundle of dynamite sticks, or some
sort of ticking device, and he was on the verge of crying out when he
came to his senses and admonished himself severely. This was precisely
the type of superstitious flummery he was leaving behind. He was a neat
man in a buttoned suit heading for London and an ordered, contented
life. He was a member of the real world.
He travelled alone, shunning the company of the other members of the
Prospero Players troupe, who had scattered around the economy class
cabin wearing Fancy-a-Donald T-shirts and trying to wiggle their necks
in the manner of natyam dancers and looking absurd in Benarsi saris
and drinking too much cheap airline champagne and importuning the
scorn--laden stewardesses who, being Indian, understood that actors
were cheap-type persons; and behaving, in short, with normal thespian
impropriety. The woman holding the baby had a way of looking
through the paleface players, of turning them into wisps of smoke,
heat-mirages, ghosts. For a man like Saladin Chamcha the debasing of
Englishness by the English was a thing too painful to contemplate. He
turned to his newspaper in which a Bombay "rail roko" demonstration
was being broken up by police lathicharges. The newspaper's reporter
suffered a broken arm; his camera, too, was smashed. The police had
issued a "note". _Neither the reporter nor any other person was
assaulted intentionally_. Chamcha drifted into airline sleep. The city of
lost histories, felled trees and unintentional assaults faded from his
thoughts. When he opened his eyes a little later he had his second,
surprise of that macabre journey. A man was passing him on the way to
the toilet. He was bearded and wore cheap tinted spectacles, but
Chamcha recognized him anyway: here, travelling incognito in the
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economy class of Flight A 1--420, was the vanished superstar, the living
legend, Gibreel Farishta himself.
"Sleep okay?" He realized the question was addressed to him, and
turned away from the apparition of the great movie actor to stare at the
equally extraordinary sight sitting next to him, an improbable American
in baseball cap, metal--rim spectacles and a neon--green bush--shirt
across which there writhed the intertwined and luminous golden forms
of a pair of Chinese dragons. Chamcha had edited this entity out of his
field of vision in an attempt to wrap himself in a cocoon of privacy, but
privacy was no longer possible.
"Eugene Dumsday at your service," the dragon man stuck out a huge
red hand. "At yours, and at that of the Christian guard."
Sleep-fuddled Chamcha shook his head. "You are a military man?"
"Ha! Ha! Yes, sir, you could say. A humble foot soldier, sir, in the army
of Guard Almighty." Oh, _almighty_ guard, why didn't you say. "I am a
man of science, sir, and it has been my mission, my mission and let me
add my privilege, to visit your great nation to do battle with the most
pernicious devilment ever got folks' brains by the balls."
"I don't follow."
Dumsday lowered his voice. "I'm talking monkey-crap here, sir.
Darwinism. The evolutionary heresy of Mr. Charles Darwin." His tones
made it plain that the name of anguished, God-ridden Darwin was as
distasteful as that of any other forktail fiend, Beelzebub, Asmodeus or
Lucifer himself. "I have been warning your fellow-men," Dumsday
confided, "against Mr. Darwin and his works. With the assistance of my
personal fifty-seven-slide presentation. I spoke most recently, sir, at the
World Understanding Day banquet of the Rotary Club, Cochin, Kerala. I
spoke of my own country, of its young people. I see them lost, sir. The
young people of America: I see them in their despair, turning to
narcotics, even, for I'm a plain--speaking man, to pre-marital sexual
relations. And I said this then and I say it now to you. If I believed my
great-granddaddy was a chimpanzee, why, I'd be pretty depressed
myself."
Gibreel Farishta was seated across the way, staring out of the window.
The inflight movie was starting up, and the aircraft lights were being
dimmed. The woman with the baby was still on her feet, walking up and
down, perhaps to keep the baby quiet. "How did it go down?" Chamcha
asked, sensing that some contribution from him was being required.
A hesitancy came over his neighbour. "I believe there was a glitch in the
sound system," he said finally. "That would be my best guess. I can't
see how those good people would've set to talking amongst themselves
if they hadn't've thought I was through."
Chamcha felt a little abashed. He had been thinking that in a country
of fervent believers the notion that science was the enemy of God would
have an easy appeal; but the boredom of the Rotarians of Cochin had
shown him up. In the flickering light of the inflight movie, Dumsday
continued, in his voice of an innocent ox, to tell stories against himself
without the faintest indication of knowing what he was doing. He had
been accosted, at the end of a cruise around the magnificent natural
harbour of Cochin, to which Vasco da Gama had come in search of
spices and so set in motion the whole ambiguous history of east-and-
west, by an urchin full of pssts and hey-mister--okays. "Hi there, yes!
You want hashish, sahib? Hey, misteramerica. Yes, unclesam, you want
opium, best quality, top price? Okay, you want _cocaine?_"
Saladin began, helplessly, to giggle. The incident struck him as
Darwin's revenge: if Dumsday held poor, Victorian, starchy Charles
responsible for American drug culture, how delicious that he should
himself be seen, across the globe, as representing the very ethic he
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battled so fervently against. Dumsday fixed him with a look of pained
reproof. It was a hard fate to be an American abroad, and not to suspect
why you were so disliked.
After the involuntary giggle had escaped Saladin's lips, Dumsday sank
into a sullen, injured drowse, leaving Chamcha to his own thoughts.
Should the inflight movie be thought of as a particularly vile, random
mutation of the form, one that would eventually be extinguished by
natural selection, or were they the future of the cinema? A future of
screwball caper movies eternally starring Shelley Long and Chevy Chase
was too hideous to contemplate; it was a vision of Hell . . . Chamcha
was drifting back into sleep when the cabin lights came on; the movie
stopped; and the illusion of the cinema was replaced by one of watching
the television news, as four armed, shouting figures came running down
the aisles.
The passengers were held on the hijacked aircraft for one hundred and
eleven days, marooned on a shimmering runway around which there
crashed the great sand-waves of the desert, because once the four
hijackers, three men one woman, had forced the pilot to land nobody
could make up their minds what to do with them. They had come down
not at an international airport but at the absurd folly of a jumbo-sized
landing strip which had been built for the pleasure of the local sheikh
at his favourite desert oasis, to which there now also led a six-lane
highway very popular among single young men and women, who would
cruise along its vast emptiness in slow cars ogling one another through
the windows . . . once 420 had landed here, however, the highway was
full of armoured cars, troop transports, limousines waving flags. And
while diplomats haggled over the airliner's fate, to storm or not to
storm, while they tried to decide whether to concede or to stand firm at
the expense of other people's lives, a great stillness settled around the
airliner and it wasn't long before the mirages began.
83
In the beginning there had been a constant flow of event, the hijacking
quartet full of electricity, jumpy, trigger-happy. These are the worst
moments, Chamcha thought while children screamed and fear spread
like a stain, here's where we could all go west. Then they were in
control, three men one woman, all tall, none of them masked, all
handsome, they were actors, too, they were stars now, shootingstars or
falling, and they had their own stage-names. Dara Singh Buta Singh
Man Singh. The woman was Tavleen. The woman in the dream had been
anonymous, as if Chamcha's sleeping fancy had no time for
pseudonyms; but, like her, Tavleen spoke with a Canadian accent,
smooth-edged, with those give-away rounded O's. After the plane
landed at the oasis of Al-Zamzam it became plain to the passengers,
who were observing their captors with the obsessive attention paid to a
cobra by a transfixed mongoose, that there was something posturing in
the beauty of the three men, some amateurish love of risk and death in
them that made them appear frequently at the open doors of the
airplane and flaunt their bodies at the professional snipers who must
have been hiding amid the palm-trees of the oasis. The woman held
herself aloof from such silliness and seemed to be restraining herself
from scolding her three colleagues. She seemed insensible to her own
beauty, which made her the most dangerous of the four. It struck
Saladin Chamcha that the young men were too squeamish, too
narcissistic, to want blood on their hands. They would find it difficult
to kill; they were here to be on television. But Tavleen was here on
business. He kept his eyes on her. The men do not know, he thought.
They want to behave the way they have seen hijackers behaving in the
movies and on TV; they arc reality aping a crude image of itself, they are
worms swallowing their tails. But she, the woman, _knows_ . . . while
Dara, Buta, Man Singh strutted and pranced, she became quiet, her eyes
turned inwards, and she scared the passengers stiff.
What did they want? Nothing new. An independent homeland, religious
freedom, release of political detainees, justice, ransom money, a safe-
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conduct to a country of their choice. Many of the passengers came to
sympathize with them, even though they were under constant threat of
execution. If you live in the twentieth century you do not find it hard to
see yourself in those, more desperate than yourself, who seek to shape it
to their will.
After they landed the hijackers released all but fifty of the passengers,
having decided that fifty was the largest number they could
comfortably supervise. Women, children, Sikhs were all released. It
turned out that Saladin Chamcha was the only member of Prospero
Players who was not given his freedom; he found himself succumbing to
the perverse logic of the situation, and instead of feeling upset at
having been retained he was glad to have seen the back of his badly
behaved colleagues; good riddance to bad rubbish, he thought.
The creationist scientist Eugene Dumsday was unable to bear the
realization that the hijackers did not intend to release him. He rose to
his feet, swaying at his great height like a skyscraper in a hurricane, and
began shouting hysterical incoherences. A stream of dribble ran out of
the corner of his mouth; he licked at it feverishly with his tongue. _Now
just hold hard here, busters, now goddamn it enough is ENO UGH,
whaddya wheredya get the idea you can_ and so forth, in the grip of his
waking nightmare he drivelled on and on until one of the four,
obviously it was the woman, came up, swung her rifle butt and broke
his flapping jaw. And worse: because slobbering Dumsday had been
licking his lips as his jaw slammed shut, the tip of his tongue sheared
off and landed in Saladin Chamcha's lap; followed in quick time by its
former owner. Eugene Dumsday fell tongueless and insensate into the
actor's arms.
Eugene Dumsday gained his freedom by losing his tongue; the
persuader succeeded in persuading his captors by surrendering his
instrument of persuasion. They didn't want to look after a wounded
man, risk of gangrene and so on, and so he joined the exodus from the
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plane. In those first wild hours Saladin Chamcha's mind kept throwing
up questions of detail, are those automatic rifles or sub-machine guns,
how did they smuggle all that metal on board, in which parts of the
body is it possible to be shot and still survive, how scared they must be,
the four of them, how full of their own deaths. . . once Dumsday had
gone, he had expected to sit alone, but a man came and sat in the
creationist's old seat, saying you don't mind, yaar, in such circs a guy
needs company. It was the movie star, Gibreel.
After the first nervous days on the ground, during which the three
turbaned young hijackers went perilously close to the edges of insanity,
screaming into the desert night _you bastards, come and get us_, or,
alternatively, _o god o god they're going to send in the fucking
commandos, the motherfucking Americans, yaar, the sisterfucking
British_, -- moments during which the remaining hostages closed their
eyes and prayed, because they were always most afraid when the
hijackers showed signs of weakness, -- everything settled down into
what began to feel like normality. Twice a day a solitary vehicle carried
food and drink to _Bostan_ and left it on the tarmac. The hostages had
to bring in the cartons while the hijackers watched them from the
safety of the plane. Apart from this daily visit there was no contact with
the outside world. The radio had gone dead. It was as if the incident
had been forgotten, as if it were so embarrassing that it had simply
been erased from the record. "The bastards are leaving us to rot,"
screamed Man Singh, and the hostages joined in with a will. "Hijras!
Chootias! Shits!"
They were wrapped in heat and silence and now the spectres began to
shimmer out of the corners of their eyes. The most highly strung of the
hostages, a young man with a goatee beard and close-cropped curly
hair, awoke at dawn, shrieking with fear because he had seen a skeleton
riding a camel across the dunes. Other hostages saw coloured globes
86
hanging in the sky, or heard the beating of gigantic wings. The three
male hijackers fell into a deep, fatalistic gloom. One day Tavleen
summoned them to a conference at the far end of the plane; the
hostages heard angry voices. "She's telling them they have to issue an
ultimatum," Gibreel Farishta said to Chamcha. "One of us has to die,
or such." But when the men returned Tavleen wasn't with them and the
dejection in their eyes was tinged, now, with shame. "They lost their
guts," Gibreel whispered. "No can do. Now what is left for our Tavleen
bibi? Zero. Story funtoosh."
What she did:
In order to prove to her captives, and also to her fellow-captors, that
the idea of failure, or surrender, would never weaken her resolve, she
emerged from her momentary retreat in the first--class cocktail lounge
to stand before them like a stewardess demonstrating safety procedures.
But instead of putting on a lifejacket and holding up blow--tube whistle
etcetera, she quickly lifted the loose black djellabah that was her only
garment and stood before them stark naked, so that they could all see
the arsenal of her body, the grenades like extra breasts nestling in her
cleavage, the gelignite taped around her thighs, just the way it had been
in Chamcha's dream. Then she slipped her robe back on and spoke in
her faint oceanic voice. "When a great idea comes into the world, a
great cause, certain crucial questions are asked of it," she murmured.
"History asks us: what manner of cause are we? Are we
uncompromising, absolute, strong, or will we show ourselves to be
timeservers, who compromise, trim and yield?" Her body had provided
her answer.
The days continued to pass. The enclosed, boiling circumstances of his
captivity, at once intimate and distant, made Saladin Chamcha want to
argue with the woman, unbendingness can also be monomania, he
wanted to say, it can be tyranny, and also it can be brittle, whereas what
is flexible can also be humane, and strong enough to last. But he didn't
87
say anything, of course, he fell into the torpor of the days. Gibreel
Farishta discovered in the seat pocket in front of him a pamphlet
written by the departed Dumsday. By this time Chamcha had noticed
the determination with which the movie star resisted the onset of sleep,
so it wasn't surprising to see him reciting and memorizing the lines of
the creationist's leaflet, while his already heavy eyelids drooped lower
and lower until he forced them to open wide again. The leaflet argued
that even the scientists were busily re--inventing God, that once they
had proved the existence of a single unified force of which
electromagnetism, gravity and the strong and weak forces of the new
physics were all merely aspects, avatars, one might say, or angels, then
what would we have but the oldest thing of all, a supreme entity
controlling all creation . . . "You see, what our friend says is, if you have
to choose between some type of disembodied force-field and the actual
living God, which one would you go for? Good point, na? You can't
pray to an electric current. No point asking a wave-form for the key to
Paradise." He closed his eyes, then snapped them open again. "All
bloody bunk," he said fiercely. "Makes me sick."
After the first days Chamcha no longer noticed Gibreel's bad breath,
because nobody in that world of sweat and apprehension was smelling
any better. But his face was impossible to ignore, as the great purple
welts of his wakefulness spread outwards like oil--slicks from his eyes.
Then at last his resistance ended and he collapsed on to Saladin's
shoulder and slept for four days without waking once.
When he returned to his senses he found that Chamcha, with the help
of the mouse-like, goateed hostage, a certain Jalandri, had moved him
to an empty row of seats in the centre block. He went to the toilet to
urinate for eleven minutes and returned with a look of real terror in his
eyes. He sat down by Chamcha again, but wouldn't say a word. Two
nights later, Chamcha heard him fighting, once again, against the onset
of sleep. Or, as it turned out: of dreams.
88
"Tenth highest peak in the world," Chamcha heard him mutter, "is
Xixabangma Feng, eight oh one three metres. Annapurna ninth, eighty
seventy-eight." Or he would begin at the other end: "One,
Chomolungma, eight eight four eight. Two, K2, eighty-six eleven.
Kanchenjunga, eighty-five ninety-eight, Makalu, Dhaulagiri, Manaslu.
Nanga Parbat, metres eight thousand one hundred and twenty-six."
"You count eight thousand metre peaks to fall asleep?" Chamcha asked
him. Bigger than sheep, but not so numerous.
Gibreel Farishta glared at him; then bowed his head; came to a decision.
"Not to sleep, my friend. To stay awake."
That was when Saladin Chamcha found out why Gibreel Farishta had
begun to fear sleep. Everybody needs somebody to talk to and Gibreel
had spoken to nobody about what had happened after he ate the
unclean pigs. The dreams had begun that very night. In these visions he
was always present, not as himself but as his namesake, and I don't
mean interpreting a role, Spoono, I am him, he is me, I am the bloody
archangel, Gibreel himself, large as bloody life.
_Spoono_. Like Zeenat Vakil, Gibreel had reacted with mirth to
Saladin's abbreviated name. "Bhai, wow. I'm tickled, truly. Tickled
pink. So if you are an English chamcha these days, let it be. Mr. Sally
Spoon. It will be our little joke." Gibreel Farishta had a way of failing
to notice when he made people angry. _Spoon, Spoono, my old
Chumch_: Saladin hated them all. But could do nothing. Except hate.
Maybe it was because of the nicknames, maybe not, but Saladin .found
Gibreel's revelations pathetic, anticlimactic, what was so strange if his
dreams characterized him as the angel, dreams do every damn thing, did
it really display more than a banal kind of egomania? But Gibreel was
sweating from fear: "Point is, Spoono," he pleaded, "every time I go to
sleep the dream starts up from where it stopped. Same dream in the
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same place. As if somebody just paused the video while I went out of the
room. Or, or. As if he's the guy who's awake and this is the bloody
nightmare. His bloody dream: us. Here. All of it." Chamcha stared at
him. "Crazy, right," he said. "Who knows if angels even sleep, never
mind dream. I sound crazy. Am I right or what?"
"Yes. You sound crazy."
"Then what the hell," he wailed, "is going on in my head?"
The longer he spent without going to sleep the more talkative he
became, he began to regale the hostages, the hijackers, as well as the
dilapidated crew of Flight 420, those formerly scornful stewardesses
and shining flight-deck personnel who were now looking mournfully
moth-eaten in a corner of the plane and even losing their earlier
enthusiasm for endless games of rummy, -- with his increasingly
eccentric reincarnation theories, comparing their sojourn on that
airstrip by the oasis of Al-Zamzam to a second period of gestation,
telling everybody that they were all dead to the world and in the process
of being regenerated, made anew. This idea seemed to cheer him up
somewhat, even though it made many of the hostages want to string
him up, and he leapt up on to a seat to explain that the day of their
release would be the day of their rebirth, a piece of optimism that
calmed his audience down. "Strange but true!" he cried. "That will be
day zero, and because we will all share the birthday we will all be exactly
the same age from that day on, for the rest of our lives. How do you call
it when fifty kids come out of the same mother? God knows. Fiftuplets.
Damn!"
Reincarnation, for frenzied Gibreel, was a term beneath whose shield
many notions gathered a-babeling: phoenix-from-ashes, the
resurrection of Christ, the transmigration, at the instant of death, of
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the soul of the Dalai Lama into the body of a new-born child . . . such
matters got mixed up with the avatars of Vishnu, the metamorphoses of
Jupiter, who had imitated Vishnu by adopting the form of a bull; and so
on, including of course the progress of human beings through
successive cycles of life, now as cockroaches, now as kings, towards the
bliss of no-morereturns. _To be born again, first you have to die_.
Chamcha did not bother to protest that in most of the examples Gibreel
provided in his soliloquies, metamorphosis had not required a death;
the new flesh had been entered into through other gates. Gibreel in full
flight, his arms waving like imperious wings, brooked no interruptions.
"The old must die, you get my message, or the new cannot be whatnot."
Sometimes these tirades would end in tears. Farishta in his exhaustion-
beyond-exhaustion would lose control and place his sobbing head on
Chamcha's shoulder, while Saladin -- prolonged captivity erodes certain
reluctances among the captives -- would stroke his face and kiss the top
of his head, _There, there, there_. On other occasions Chamcha's
irritation would get the better of him. The seventh time that Farishta
quoted the old Gramsci chestnut, Saladin shouted out in frustration,
maybe that's what's happening to you, loudmouth, your old self is
dying and that dream-angel of yours is trying to be born into your
flesh.
"You want to hear something really crazy?" Gibreel after a hundred and
one days offered Chamcha more confidences. "You want to know why
I'm here?" And told him anyway: "For a woman. Yes, boss. For the
bloody love of my bloody life. With whom I have spent a sum total of
days three point five. Doesn't that prove I really am cracked? QED,
Spoono, old Chumch."
And: "How to explain it to you? Three and a half days of it, how long do
you need to know that the best thing has happened, the deepest thing,
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the has-to--be-it? I swear: when I kissed her there were mother--fucking
sparks, yaar, believe don't believe, she said it was static electricity in the
carpet but I've kissed chicks in hotel rooms before and this was a
definite first, a definite one-and-only. Bloody electric shocks, man, I
had to jump back with pain."
He had no words to express her, his woman of mountain ice, to express
how it had been in that moment when his life had been in pieces at his
feet and she had become its meaning. "You don't see," he gave up.
"Maybe you never met a person for whom you'd cross the world, for
whom you'd leave everything, walk out and take a plane. She climbed
Everest, man. Twenty-nine thousand and two feet, or maybe twenty-nine
one four one. Straight to the top. You think I can't get on a jumbo-jet
for a woman like that?"
The harder Gibreel Farishta tried to explain his obsession with the
mountain—climber Alleluia Cone, the more Saladin tried to conjure up
the memory of Pamela, but she wouldn't come. At first it would be
Zeeny who visited him, her shade, and then after a time there was
nobody at all. Gibreel's passion began to drive Chamcha wild with
anger and frustration, but Farishta didn't notice it, slapped him on the
back, _cheer up, Spoono, won't be long now_.
On the hundred and tenth day Tavleen walked up to the little goateed
hostage, Jalandri, and motioned with her finger. Our patience has been
exhausted, she announced, we have sent repeated ultimatums with no
response, it is time for the first sacrifice. She used that word: sacrifice.
She looked straight into Jalandri's eyes and pronounced his death
sentence. "You first. Apostate traitor bastard." She ordered the crew to
prepare for take-off, she wasn't going to risk a storming of the plane
after the execution, and with the point of her gun she pushed Jalandri
towards the open door at the front, while he screamed and begged for
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mercy. "She's got sharp eyes," Gibreel said to Chamcha. "He's a cut-
sird." Jalandri had become the first target because of his decision to
give up the turban and cut his hair, which made him a traitor to his
faith, a shorn Sirdarji. _Cut-Sird_. A seven--letter condemnation; no
appeal.
Jalandri had fallen to his knees, stains were spreading on the seat of his
trousers, she was dragging him to the door by his hair. Nobody moved.
Dara Buta Man Singh turned away from the tableau. He was kneeling
with his back to the open door; she made him turn round, shot him in
the back of the head, and he toppled out on to the tarmac. Tavleen shut
the door.
Man Singh, youngest and jumpiest of the quartet, screamed at her:
"Now where do we go? In any damn place they'll send the commandos
in for sure. We're gone geese now."
"Martyrdom is a privilege," she said softly. "We shall be like stars; like
the sun."
Sand gave way to snow. Europe in winter, beneath its white,
transforming carpet, its ghost-white shining up through the night. The
Alps, France, the coastline of England, white cliffs rising to whitened
meadowlands. Mr. Saladin Chamcha jammed on an anticipatory bowler
hat. The world had rediscovered Flight A 1-420, the Boeing 747
_Bostan_. Radar tracked it; radio messages crackled. _Do you want
permission to land?_ But no permission was requested. _Bostan_ circled
over England's shore like a gigantic sea-bird. Gull. Albatross. Fuel
indicators dipped: towards zero.
When the fight broke out, it took all the passengers by surprise, because
this time the three male hijackers didn't argue with Tavleen, there were
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no fierce whispers about the _fuel_ about _what the fuck you're doing_
but just a mute stand-off, they wouldn't even talk to one another, as if
they had given up hope, and then it was Man Singh who cracked and
went for her. The hostages watched the fight to the death, unable to
feel involved, because a curious detachment from reality had come over
the aircraft, a kind of inconsequential casualness, a fatalism, one might
say. They fell to the floor and her knife went up through his stomach.
That was all, the brevity of it adding to its seeming unimportance. Then
in the instant when she rose up it was as if everybody awoke, it became
clear to them all that she really meant business, she was going through
with it, all the way, she was holding in her hand the wire that connected
all the pins of all the grenades beneath her gown, all those fatal breasts,
and although at that moment Buta and Dara rushed at her she pulled
the wire anyway, and the walls came tumbling down.
No, not death: birth.
II. Mahound
1
Gibreel when he submits to the inevitable, when he slides heavy-lidded
towards visions of his angeling, passes his loving mother who has a
different name for him, Shaitan, she calls him, just like Shaitan, same
to same, because he has been fooling around with the tiffins to be
carried into the city for the office workers' lunch, mischeevious imp,
she slices the air with her hand, rascal has been putting Muslim meat
compartments into Hindu non-veg tiffin-carriers, customers are up in
arms. Little devil, she scolds, but then folds him in her arms, my little
farishta, boys will be boys, and he falls past her into sleep, growing
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bigger as he falls and the falling begins to feel like flight, his mother's
voice wafts distantly up to him, baba, look how you grew, enor_mouse_,
wah-wah, applause. He is gigantic, wingless, standing with his feet upon
the horizon and his arms around the sun. In the early dreams he sees
beginnings, Shaitan cast down from the sky, making a grab for a branch
of the highest Thing, the lote-tree of the uttermost end that stands
beneath the Throne, Shaitan missing, plummeting, splat. But he lived
on, was not couldn't be dead, sang from heilbelow his soft seductive
verses. O the sweet songs that he knew. With his daughters as his
fiendish backing group, yes, the three of them, Lat Manat Uzza,
motherless girls laughing with their Abba, giggling behind their hands
at Gibreel, what a trick we got in store for you, they giggle, for you and
for that businessman on the hill. But before the businessman there are
other stories, here he is, Archangel Gibreel, revealing the spring of
Zamzam to Hagar the Egyptian so that, abandoned by the prophet
Ibrahim with their child in the desert, she might drink the cool spring
waters and so live. And later, after the Jurhum filled up Zamzam with
mud and golden gazelles, so that it was lost for a time, here he is again,
pointing it out to that one, Muttalib of the scarlet tents, father of the
child with the silver hair who fathered, in turn, the businessman. The
businessman: here he comes.
Sometimes when he sleeps Gibreel becomes aware, without the dream,
of himself sleeping, of himself dreaming his own awareness of his
dream, and then a panic begins, O God, he cries out, O allgood
allahgod, I've had my bloody chips, me. Got bugs in the brain, full mad,
a looney tune and a gone baboon. Just as he, the businessman, felt when
he first saw the archangel: thought he was cracked, wanted to throw
himself down from a rock, from a high rock, from a rock on which there
grew a stunted lote-tree, a rock as high as the roof of the world.
He's coming: making his way up Cone Mountain to the cave. Happy
birthday: he's forty-four today. But though the city behind and below
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him throngs with festival, up he climbs, alone. No new birthday suit for
him, neatly pressed and folded at the foot of his bed. A man of ascetic
tastes. (What strange manner of businessman is this?)
Question: What is the opposite of faith?
Not disbelief. Too final, certain, closed. Itself a kind of belief.
Doubt.
The human condition, but what of the angelic? Halfway between
Allahgod and homosap, did they ever doubt? They did: challenging
God's will one day they hid muttering beneath the Throne, daring to
ask forbidden things: antiquestions. Is it right that. Could it not be
argued. Freedom, the old antiquest. He calmed them down, naturally,
employing management skills a la god. Flattered them: you will be the
instruments of my will on earth, of the salvationdamnation of man, all
the usual etcetera. And hey presto, end of protest, on with the haloes,
back to work. Angels are easily pacified; turn them into instruments
and they'll play your harpy tune. Human beings are tougher nuts, can
doubt anything, even the evidence of their own eyes. Of behind-their-
own eyes. Of what, as they sink heavy-lidded, transpires behind closed
peepers. . . angels, they don't have much in the way of a will. To will is
to disagree; not to submit; to dissent.
I know; devil talk. Shaitan interrupting Gibreel.
Me?
The businessman: looks as he should, high forehead, eaglenose, broad
in the shoulders, narrow in the hip. Average height, brooding, dressed
in two pieces of plain cloth, each four ells in length, one draped around
his body, the other over his shoulder. Large eyes; long lashes like a
girl's. His strides can seem too long for his legs, but he's a light-footed
man. Orphans learn to be moving targets, develop a rapid walk, quick
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reactions, hold-yourtongue caution. Up through the thorn-bushes and
opobalsam trees he comes, scrabbling on boulders, this is a fit man, no
softbellied usurer he. And yes, to state it again: takes an odd sort of
business wallah to cut off into the wilds, up Mount Cone, sometimes
for a month at a stretch, just to be alone.
His name: a dream-name, changed by the vision. Pronounced correctly,
it means he-for-whom-thanks-should-be-given, but he won't answer to
that here; nor, though he's well aware of what they call him, to his
nickname in Jahilia down below -- _he-who-goes-up-and-down-old-
Coney_. Here he is neither Mahomet nor MocHammered; has adopted,
instead, the demon-tag the farangis hung around his neck. To turn
insults into strengths, whigs, tories, Blacks all chose to wear with pride
the names they were given in scorn; likewise, our mountain-climbing,
prophetmotivated solitary is to be the medieval baby--frightener, the
Devil's synonym: Mahound.
That's him. Mahound the businessman, climbing his hot mountain in
the Hijaz. The mirage of a city shines below him in the sun.
The city of Jahilia is built entirely of sand, its structures formed of the
desert whence it rises. It is a sight to wonder at: walled, four-gated, the
whole of it a miracle worked by its citizens, who have learned the trick
of transforming the fine white dune-sand of those forsaken parts, -- the
very stuff of inconstancy, -- the quintessence of unsettlement, shifting,
treachery, lack--of--form, -- and have turned it, by alchemy, into the
fabric of their newly invented permanence. These people are a mere
three or four generations removed from their nomadic past, when they
were as rootless as the dunes, or rather rooted in the knowledge that
the journeying itself was home.
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-- Whereas the migrant can do without the journey altogether; it's no
more than a necessary evil; the point is to arrive. --.
Quite recently, then, and like the shrewd businessmen they were, the
Jahilians settled down at the intersection — point of the routes of the
great caravans, and yoked the dunes to their will. Now the sand serves
the mighty urban merchants. Beaten into cobbles, it paves Jahilia's
tortuous streets; by night, golden flames blaze out from braziers of
burnished sand. There is glass in the windows, in the long, slitlike
windows set in the infinitely high sand-walls of the merchant palaces;
in the alleys of Jahilia, donkey-carts roll forward on smooth silicon
wheels. I, in my wickedness, sometimes imagine the coming of a great
wave, a high wall of foaming water roaring across the desert, a liquid
catastrophe full of snapping boats and drowning arms, a tidal wave that
would reduce these vain sandcastles to the nothingness, to the grains
from which they came. But there are no waves here. Water is the enemy
in Jahilia. Carried in earthen pots, it must never be spilled (the penal
code deals fiercely with offenders), for where it drops the city erodes
alarmingly. Holes appear in roads, houses tilt and sway. The
watercarriers of Jahilia are loathed necessities, pariahs who cannot be
ignored and therefore can never be forgiven. It never rains in Jahilia;
there are no fountains in the silicon gardens. A few palms stand in
enclosed courtyards, their roots travelling far and wide below the earth
in search of moisture. The city's water comes from underground
streams and springs, one such being the fabled Zamzam, at the heart of
the concentric sand-- city, next to the House of the Black Stone. Here,
at Zamzam, is a beheshti, a despised water—carrier, drawing up the
vital, dangerous fluid. He has a name: Khalid.
A city of businessmen, Jahilia. The name of the tribe is _Shark_.
In this city, the businessman-turned-prophet, Mahound, is founding
one of the world's great religions; and has arrived, on this day, his
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birthday, at the crisis of his life. There is a voice whispering in his ear:
_What kind of idea are you? Man-or-mouse?_
We know that voice. We've heard it once before.
While Mahound climbs Coney, Jahilia celebrates a different anniversary.
In ancient time the patriarch Ibrahim came into this valley with Hagar
and Ismail, their son. Here, in this waterless wilderness, he abandoned
her. She asked him, can this be God's will? He replied, it is. And left,
the bastard. From the beginning men" used God to justify the
unjustifiable. He moves in mysterious ways: men say. Small wonder,
then, that women have turned to me. -- But I'll keep to the point; Hagar
wasn't a witch. She was trusting: _then surely He will not let me
perish_. After Ibrahim left her, she fed the baby at her breast until her
milk ran out. Then she climbed two hills, first Safa then Marwah,
running from one to the other in her desperation, trying to sight a tent,
a camel, a human being. She saw nothing. That was when he came to
her, Gibreel, and showed her the waters of Zamzam. So Hagar survived;
but why now do the pilgrims congregate? To celebrate her survival? No,
no. They are celebrating the honour done the valley by the visit of,
you've guessed it, Ibrahim. In that loving consort's name, they gather,
worship and, above all, spend.
Jahilia today is all perfume. The scents of Araby, of _Arabia Odorifera_,
hang in the air: balsam, cassia, cinnamon, frankincense, myrrh. The
pilgrims drink the wine of the date-palm and wander in the great fair of
the feast of Ibrahim. And, among them, one wanders whose furrowed
brow sets him apart from the cheerful crowd: a tall man in loose white
robes, he'd stand almost a full head higher than Mahound. His beard is
shaped close to his slanting, high--boned face; his gait contains the lilt,
the deadly elegance of power. What's he called? -- The vision yields his
name eventually; it, too, is changed by the dream. Here he is, Karim Abu
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Simbel, Grandee of Jahilia, husband to the ferocious, beautiful Hind.
Head of the ruling council of the city, rich beyond numbering, owner of
the lucrative temples at the city gates, wealthy in camels, comptroller of
caravans, his wife the greatest beauty in the land: what could shake the
certainties of such a man? And yet, for Abu Simbel, too, a crisis is
approaching. A name gnaws at him, and you can guess what it is,
Mahound Mahound Mahound.
O the splendour of the fairgrounds of Jahilia! Here in vast scented tents
are arrays of spices, of senna leaves, of fragrant woods; here the perfume
vendors can be found, competing for the pilgrims' noses, and for their
wallets, too. Abu Simbel pushes his way through the crowds. Merchants,
Jewish, Monophysite, Nabataean, buy and sell pieces of silver and gold,
weighing them, biting coins with knowing teeth. There is linen from
Egypt and silk from China; from Basra, arms and grain. There is
gambling, and drinking, and dance. There are slaves for sale, Nubian,
Anatolian, Aethiop. The four factions of the tribe of Shark control
separate zones of the fair, the scents and spices in the Scarlet Tents,
while in the Black Tents the cloth and leather. The SilverHaired
grouping is in charge of precious metals and swords. Entertainment --
dice, belly-dancers, palm-wine, the smoking of hashish and afeem -- is
the prerogative of the fourth quarter of the tribe, the Owners of the
Dappled Camels, who also run the slave trade. Abu Simbel looks into a
dance tent. Pilgrims sit clutching money-bags in their left hands; every
so often a coin is moved from bag to right-hand palm. The dancers
shake and sweat, and their eyes never leave the pilgrims' fingertips;
when the coin transfer ceases, the dance also ends. The great man
makes a face and lets the tent-flap fall.
Jahilia has been built in a series of rough circles, its houses spreading
outwards from the House of the Black Stone, approximately in order of
wealth and rank. Abu Simbel's palace is in the first circle, the
innermost ring; he makes his way down one of the rambling, windy
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radial roads, past the city's many seers who, in return for pilgrim
money, are chirping, cooing, hissing, possessed variously by djinnis of
birds, beasts, snakes. A sorceress, failing for a moment to look up,
squats in his path: "Want to capture a girlie's heart, my dear? Want an
enemy under your thumb? Try me out; try my little knots!" And raises,
dangles a knotty rope, ensnarer of human lives -- but, seeing now to
whom she speaks, lets fall her disappointed arm and slinks away,
mumbling, into sand.
Everywhere, noise and elbows. Poets stand on boxes and declaim while
pilgrims throw coins at their feet. Some bards speak rajaz verses, their
four--syllable metre suggested, according to legend, by the walking pace
of the camel; others speak the qasidah, poems of wayward mistresses,
desert adventure, the hunting of the onager. In a day or so it will be
time for the annual poetry competition, after which the seven best
verses will be nailed up on the walls of the House of the Black Stone.
The poets are getting into shape for their big day; Abu Simbel laughs at
minstrels singing vicious satires, vitriolic odes commissioned by one
chief against another, by one tribe against its neighbour. And nods in
recognition as one of the poets falls into step beside him, a sharp
narrow youth with frenzied fingers. This young lampoonist already has
the most feared tongue in all Jahilia, but to Abu Simbel he is almost
deferential. "Why so preoccupied, Grandee? If you were not losing your
hair I'd tell you to let it down." Abu Simbel grins his sloping grin.
"Such a reputation," he muses. "Such fame, even before your milk-teeth
have fallen out. Look out or we'll have to draw those teeth for you." He
is teasing, speaking lightly, but even this lightness is laced with menace,
because of the extent of his power. The boy is unabashed. Matching Abu
Simbel stride for stride, he replies: "For every one you pull out, a
stronger one will grow, biting deeper, drawing hotter spurts of blood."
The Grandee, vaguely, nods. "You like the taste of blood," he says. The
boy shrugs. "A poet's work," he answers. "To name the unnamable, to
point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world and stop
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it from going to sleep." And if rivers of blood flow from the cuts his
verses inflict, then they will nourish him. He is the satirist, Baal.
A curtained litter passes by; some fine lady of the city, out to see the
fair, borne on the shoulders of eight Anatolian slaves. Abu Simbel takes
the young Baal by the elbow, under the pretext of steering him out of
the road; murmurs, "I hoped to find you; if you will, a word." Baa!
marvels at the skill of the Grandee. Searching for a man, he can make
his quarry think he has hunted the hunter. Abu Simbel's grip tightens;
by the elbow, he steers his companion towards the holy of holies at the
centre of the town.
"I have a commission for you," the Grandee says. "A literary matter. I
know my limitations; the skills of rhymed malice, the arts of metrical
slander, are quite beyond my powers. You understand."
But Baal, the proud, arrogant fellow, stiffens, stands on his dignity. "It
isn't right for the artist to become the servant of the state." Simbel's
voice falls lower, acquires silkier rhythms. "Ah, yes. Whereas to place
yourself at the disposal of assassins is an entirely honourable thing." A
cult of the dead has been raging in J ahilia. When a man dies, paid
mourners beat themselves, scratch their breasts, tear hair. A hamstrung
camel is left on the grave to die. And if the man has been murdered his
closest relative takes ascetic vows and pursues the murderer until the
blood has been avenged by blood; whereupon it is customary to
compose a poem of celebration, but few revengers are gifted in rhyme.
Many poets make a living by writing assassination songs, and there is
general agreement that the finest of these blood--praising versifiers is
the precocious polemicist, Baal. Whose professional pride prevents him
from being bruised, now, by the Grandee's little taunt. "That is a
cultural matter," he replies. Abu Simbel sinks deeper still into silkiness.
"Maybe so," he whispers at the gates of the House of the Black Stone,
"but, Baal, concede: don't I have some small claim upon you? We both
serve, or so I thought, the same mistress."
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Now the blood leaves Baal's cheeks; his confidence cracks, falls from
him like a shell. The Grandee, seemingly oblivious to the alteration,
sweeps the satirist forward into the House.
They say in Jahilia that this valley is the navel of the earth; that the
planet, when it was being made, went spinning round this point. Adam
came here and saw a miracle: four emerald pillars bearing aloft a giant
glowing ruby, and beneath this canopy a huge white stone, also glowing
with its own light, like a vision of his soul. He built strong walls around
the vision to bind it forever to the earth. This was the first House. It
was rebuilt many times -- once by Ibrahim, after Hagar's and Ismail's
angel-- assisted survival -- and gradually the countless touchings of the
white stone by the pilgrims of the centuries darkened its colour to
black. Then the time of the idols began; by the time of Mahound, three
hundred and sixty stone gods clustered around God's own stone.
What would old Adam have thought? His own sons are here now: the
colossus of Hubal, sent by the Amalekites from Hit, stands above the
treasury well, Hubal the shepherd, the waxing crescent moon; also,
glowering, dangerous Kain. He is the waning crescent, blacksmith and
musician; he, too, has his devotees.
Hubal and Kain look down on Grandee and poet as they stroll. And the
Nabataean proto-Dionysus, He-Of-Shara; the morning star, Astarte, and
saturnine Nakruh. Here is the sun god, Manaf! Look, there flaps the
giant Nasr, the god in eagleform! See Quzah, who holds the rainbow ...
is this not a glut of gods, a stone flood, to feed the glutton hunger of
the pilgrims, to quench their unholy thirst. The deities, to entice the
travellers, come -- like the pilgrims -- from far and wide. The idols, too,
are delegates to a kind of international fair.
There is a god here called Allah (means simply, the god). Ask the
Jahilians and they'll acknowledge that this fellow has some sort of
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overall authority, but he isn't very popular: an all--rounder in an age of
specialist statues.
Abu Simbel and newly perspiring Baal have arrived at the shrines,
placed side by side, of the three best-beloved goddesses in Jahilia. They
bow before all three: Uzza of the radiant visage, goddess of beauty and
love; dark, obscure Manat, her face averted, her purposes mysterious,
sifting sand between her fingers -- she's in charge of destiny -- she's
Fate; and lastly the highest of the three, the mother-goddess, whom the
Greeks called Lato. Hat, they call her here, or, more frequently, Al--Lat.
_The goddess_. Even her name makes her Allah's opposite and equal.
Lat the omnipotent. His face showing sudden relief, Baal flings himself
to the ground and prostrates himself before her. Abu Simbel stays on
his feet.
The family of the Grandee, Abu Simbel -- or, to be more precise, of his
wife Hind -- controls the famous temple of Lat at the city's southern
gate. (They also draw the revenues from the Manat temple at the east
gate, and the temple of Uzza in the north.) These concessions are the
foundations of the Grandee's wealth, so he is of course, Baal
understands, the servant of Lat. And the satirist's devotion to this
goddess is well known throughout Jahilia. So that was all he meant!
Trembling with relief, Baal remains prostrate, giving thanks to his
patron Lady. Who looks upon him benignly; but a goddess's expresson
is not to be relied upon. Baal has made a serious mistake.
Without warning, the Grandee kicks the poet in the kidney. Attacked
just when he has decided he's safe, Baa! squeals, rolls over, and Abu
Simbel follows him, continuing to kick. There is the sound of a
cracking rib. "Runt," the Grandee remarks, his voice remaining low and
good natured. "High-voiced pimp with small testicles. Did you think
that the master of Lat's temple would claim comradeship with you just
because of your adolescent passion for her?" And more kicks, regular,
methodical. Baal weeps at Abu Simbel's feet. The House of the Black
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Stone is far from empty, but who would come between the Grandee and
his wrath? Abruptly, Baal's tormentor squats down, grabs the poet by
the hair, jerks his head up, whispers into his ear: "Baal, she wasn't the
mistress I meant," and then Baal lets out a howl of hideous scif-pity,
because he knows his life is about to end, to end when he has so much
still to achieve, the poor guy. The Grandee's lips brush his ear. "Shit of
a frightened camel," Abu Simbel breathes, "I know you fuck my wife."
He observes, with interest, that Baal has acquired a prominent erection,
an ironic monument to his fear.
Abu Simbel, the cuckolded Grandee, stands up, commands, "On your
feet", and Baal, bewildered, follows him outside.
The graves of Ismail and his mother Hagar the Egyptian lie by the
north--west face of the House of the Black Stone, in an enclosure
surrounded by a low wall. Abu Simbel approaches this area, halts a little
way off. In the enclosure is a small group of men. The water-carrier
Khalid is there, and some sort of bum from Persia by the outlandish
name of Salman, and to complete this trinity of scum there is the slave
Bilal, the one Mahound freed, an enormous black monster, this one,
with a voice to match his size. The three idlers sit on the enclosure wall.
"That bunch of riff-raff," Abu Simbel says. "Those are your targets.
Write about them; and their leader, too." Baa!, for all his terror, cannot
conceal his disbelief. "Grandee, those _goons_ -- those fucking
_clowns?_ You don't have to worry about them. What do you think?
That Mahound's one God will bankrupt your temples? Three-sixty
versus one, and the one wins? Can't happen." He giggles, close to
hysteria. Abu Simbel remains calm: "Keep your insults for your verses."
Giggling Baa! can't stop. "A revolution of water--carriers, immigrants
and slaves . . . wow, Grandee. I'm really scared." Abu Simbel looks
carefully at the tittering poet. "Yes," he answers, "that's right, you
should be afraid. Get writing, please, and I expect these verses to be
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your masterpieces." Baa! crumples, whines. "But they are a waste of my,
my small talent . . ." He sees that he has said too much.
"Do as you're told," are Abu Simbel's last words to him. "You have no
choice."
The Grandee lolls in his bedroom while concubines attend to his needs.
Coconut--oil for his thinning hair, wine for his palate, tongues for his
delight. _The boy was right. Why do I fear Mahound?_ He begins, idly,
to count the concubines, gives up at fifteen with a flap of his hand.
_The boy. Hind will go on seeing him, obviously; what chance does he
have against her will?_ It is a weakness in him, he knows, that he sees
too much, tolerates too much. He has his appetites, why should she not
have hers? As long as she is discreet; and as long as he knows. He must
know; knowledge is his narcotic, his addiction. He cannot tolerate what
he does not know and for that reason, if for no other, Mahound is his
enemy, Mahound with his raggle-taggle gang, the boy was right to
laugh. He, the Grandee, laughs less easily. Like his opponent he is a
cautious man, he walks on the balls of his feet. He remembers the big
one, the slave, Bilal: how his master asked him, outside the Lat temple,
to enumerate the gods. "One," he answered in that huge musical voice.
Blasphemy, punishable by death. They stretched him out in the
fairground with a boulder on his chest. _How many did you say?_ One,
he repeated, one. A second boulder was added to the first. _One one
one_. Mahound paid his owner a large price and set him free.
No, Abu Simbel reflects, the boy Baal was wrong, these men are worth
our time. Why do I fear Mahound? For that: one one one, his terrifying
singularity. Whereas I am always divided, always two or three or fifteen.
I can even see his point of view; he is as wealthy and successful as any of
us, as any of the councillors, but because he lacks the right sort of
family connections, we haven't offered him a place amongst our group.
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Excluded by his orphaning from the mercantile elite, he feels he has
been cheated, he has not had his due. He always was an ambitious
fellow. Ambitious, but also solitary. You don't rise to the top by
climbing up a hill all by yourself. Unless, maybe, you meet an angel
there . . . yes, that's it. I see what he's up to. He wouldn't understand
me, though. _What kind of idea am I?_ I bend. I sway. I calculate the
odds, trim my sails, manipulate, survive. That is why I won't accuse
Hind of adultery. We are a good pair, ice and fire. Her family shield, the
fabled red lion, the many-toothed manticore. Let her play with her
satirist; between us it was never sex. I'll finish him when she's finished
with. Here's a great lie, thinks the Grandee of Jahilia drifting into sleep:
the pen is mightier than the sword.
The fortunes of the city of Jahilia were built on the supremacy of sand
over water. In the old days it had been thought safer to transport goods
across the desert than over the seas, where monsoons could strike at
any time. In those days before meteorology such matters were
impossible to predict. For this reason the cara-- vanserais prospered.
The produce of the world came up from Zafar to Sheba, and thence
tojahilia and the oasis of Yathrib and on to Midian where Moses lived;
thence to Aqabah and Egypt. From Jahilia other trails began: to the east
and north--east, towards Mesopotamia and the great Persian empire. To
Petra and to Palmyra, where once Solomon loved the Queen of Sheba.
Those were fatted days. But now the fleets plying the waters around the
peninsula have grown hardier, their crews more skilful, their
navigational instruments more accurate. The camel trains are losing
business to the boats. Desert-ship and sea-ship, the old rivalry, sees a
tilt in the balance of power. Jahilia's rulers fret, but there is little they
can do. Sometimes Abu Simbel suspects that only the pilgrimage stands
between the city and its ruin. The council searches the world for statues
of alien gods, to attract new pilgrims to the city of sand; but in this,
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coo, they have competitors. Down in Sheba a great temple has been
built, a shrine to rival the House of the Black Stone. Many pilgrims
have been tempted south, and the numbers at the Jahilia fairgrounds
are falling.
At the recommendation of Abu Simbel, the rulers of Jahilia have added
to their religious practices the tempting spices of profanity. The city
has become famous for its licentiousness, as a gambling den, a
whorehouse, a place of bawdy songs and wild, loud music. On one
occasion some members of the tribe of Shark went too far in their greed
for pilgrim money. The gatekeepers at the House began demanding
bribes from weary voyagers; four of them, piqued at receiving no more
than a pittance, pushed two travellers to their deaths down the great,
steep flight of stairs. This practice backfired, discouraging return visits.
. . Today, female pilgrims are often kidnapped for ransom, or sold into
concubinage. Gangs of young Sharks patrol the city, keeping their own
kind of law. It is said that Abu Simbel meets secretly with the
gangleaders and organizes them all. This is the world into which
Mahound has brought his message: one one one, Amid such
multiplicity, it sounds like a dangerous word.
The Grandee sits up and at once concubines approach to resume their
oilings and smoothings. He waves them away, claps his hands. The
eunuch enters. "Send a messenger to the house of the kahin Mahound,"
Abu Simbel commands. _We will set him a little test. A fair contest:
three against one_.
Water-carrier immigrant slave: Mahound's three disciples are washing
at the well of Zamzam. In the sand--city, their obsession with water
makes them freakish. Ablutions, always ablutions, the legs up to the
knees, the arms down to the elbows, the head down to the neck. Dry-
torsoed, wet-limbed and damp-headed, what eccentrics they look!
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Splish, splosh, washing and praying. On their knees, pushing arms, legs,
heads back into the ubiquitous sand, and then beginning again the
cycle of water and prayer. These are easy targets for Baal's pen. Their
water--loving is a treason of a sort; the people of Jahilia accept the
omnipotence of sand. It lodges between their fingers and toes, cakes
their lashes and hair, clogs their pores. They open themselves to the
desert: come, sand, wash us in aridity. That is the Jahilian way from the
highest citizen to the lowest of the low. They are people of silicon, and
water-lovers have come among them.
Baal circles them from a safe distance -- Bilal is not a man to trifle with
-- and yells gibes. "If Mahound's ideas were worth anything, do you
think they'd only be popular with trash like you?" Salman restrains
Bilal: "We should be honoured that the mighty Baal has chosen to
attack us," he smiles, and Bilal relaxes, subsides. Khalid the water-
carrier is jumpy, and when he sees the heavy figure of Mahound's uncle
Hamza approaching he runs towards him anxiously. Hamza at sixty is
still the city's most renowned fighter and lion-hunter. Though the
truth is less glorious than the eulogies: Hamza has many times been
defeated in combat, saved by friends or lucky chances, rescued from
lions' jaws. He has the money to keep such items out of the news. And
age, and survival, bestow a sort of validation upon a martial legend.
Bilal and Salman, forgetting Baal, follow Khalid. All three are nervous,
young.
He's still not home, Hamza reports. And Khalid, worried: But it's been
hours, what is that bastard doing to him, torture, thumbscrews, whips?
Salman, once again, is the calmest: That isn't Simbel's style, he says,
it's something sneaky, depend upon it. And Bilal bellows loyally:
Sneaky or not, I have faith in him, in the Prophet. He won't break.
Hamza offers only a gentle rebuke: Oh, Bilal, how many times must he
tell you? Keep your faith for God. The Messenger is only a man. The
tension bursts out of Khalid: he squares up to old Hamza, demands, Are
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you saying that the Messenger is weak? You may be his uncle . . . Hamza
clouts the water-carrier on the side of the head. Don't let him see your
fear, he says, not even when you're scared half to death.
The four of them are washing once more when Mahound arrives; they
cluster around him, whowhatwhy. Hamza stands back. "Nephew, this is
no damn good," he snaps in his soldier's bark. "When you come down
from Coney there's a brightness on you. Today it's something dark."
Mahound sits on the edge of the well and grins. "I've been offered a
deal." _By Abu Simbel?_ Khalid shouts. _Unthinkable. Refuse_. Faithful
Bilal admonishes him: Do not lecture the Messenger. Of course, he has
refused. Salman the Persian asks: What sort of deal. Mahound smiles
again. "At least one of you wants to know."
"It's a small matter," he begins again. "A grain of sand. Abu Simbel
asks Allah to grant him one little favour." Hamza sees the exhaustion in
him. As if he had been wrestling with a demon. The water—carrier is
shouting: "Nothing! Not a jot! " Hamza shuts him up.
"If our great God could find it in his heart to concede -- he used that
word, _concede_ -- that three, only three of the three hundred and sixty
idols in the house are worthy of worship . . ."
"There is no god but God!" Bilal shouts. And his fellows join in: "Ya
Allah!" Mahound looks angry. "Will the faithful hear the Messenger?"
They fall silent, scuffing their feet in the dust.
"He asks for Allah's approval of Lat, Uzza and Manat. In return, he
gives his guarantee that we will be tolerated, even officially recognized;
as a mark of which, I am to be elected to the council of Jahilia. That's
the offer."
Salman the Persian says: "It's a trap. If you go up Coney and come
down with such a Message, he'll ask, how could you make Gibreel
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provide just the right revelation? He'll be able to call you a charlatan, a
fake." Mahound shakes his head. "You know, Salman, that I have
learned how to listen. This _listening_ is not of the ordinary kind; it's
also a kind of asking. Often, when Gibreel comes, it's as if he knows
what's in my heart. It feels to me, most times, as if he comes from
within my heart: from within my deepest places, from my soul."
"Or it's a different trap," Salman persists. "How long have we been
reciting the creed you brought us? There is no god but God. What are
we if we abandon it now? This weakens us, renders us absurd. We cease
to be dangerous. Nobody will ever take us seriously again."
Mahound laughs, genuinely amused. "Maybe you haven't been here
long enough," he says kindly. "Haven't you noticed? The people do not
take us seriously. Never more than fifty in the audience when I speak,
and half of those are tourists. Don't you read the lampoons that Baal
pins up all over town?" He recites:
_Messenger, do please lend a_
_careful ear. Your monophilia_,
_your one one one, ain't for Jahilia_.
_Return to sender_.
"They mock us everywhere, and you call us dangerous," he cried.
Now Hamza looks worried. "You never worried about their opinions
before. Why now? Why after speaking to Simbel?"
Mahound shakes his head. "Sometimes I think I must make it easier for
the people to believe."
An uneasy silence covers the disciples; they exchange looks, shift their
weight. Mahound cries out again. "You all know what has been
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happening. Our failure to win converts. The people will not give up
their gods. They will not, not." He stands up, strides away from them,
washes by himself on the far side of the Zamzam well, kneels to pray.
"The people are sunk in darkness," says Bilal, unhappily. "But they will
see. They will hear. God is one." Misery infects the four of them; even
Hamza is brought low. Mahound has been shaken, and his followers
quake.
He stands, bows, sighs, comes round to rejoin them. "Listen to me, all
of you," he says, putting one arm around Bilal's shoulders, the other
around his uncle's. "Listen: it is an interesting offer."
Unembraced Khalid interrupts bitterly: "It is a _tempting_ deal." The
others look horrified. Hamza speaks very gently to the water--carrier.
"Wasn't it you, Khalid, who wanted to fight me just now because you
wrongly assumed that, when I called the Messenger a man, I was really
calling him a weakling? Now what? Is it my turn to challenge you to a
fight?"
Mahound begs for peace. "If we quarrel, there's no hope." He tries to
raise the discussion to the theological level. "It is not suggested that
Allah accept the three as his equals. Not even Lat. Only that they be
given some sort of intermediary, lesser status."
"Like devils," Bilal bursts out.
"No," Salman the Persian gets the point. "Like archangels. The
Grandee's a clever man."
"Angels and devils," Mahound says. "Shaitan and Gibreel. We all,
already, accept their existence, halfway between God and man. Abu
Simbel asks that we admit just three more to this great company. Just
three, and, he indicates, alljahilia's souls will be ours."
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"And the House will be cleansed of statues?" Salman asks. Mahound
replies that this was not specified. Salman shakes his head. "This is
being done to destroy you." And Bilal adds: "God cannot be four." And
Khalid, close to tears: "Messenger, what are you saying? Lat, Manat,
Uzza -- they're all _females!_ For pity's sake! Are we to have goddesses
now? Those old cranes, herons, hags?"
Misery strain fatigue, etched deeply into the Prophet's face. Which
Hamza, like a soldier on a battlefield comforting a wounded friend,
cups between his hands. "We can't sort this out for you, nephew," he
says. "Climb the mountain. Go ask Gibreel."
Gibreel: the dreamer, whose point of view is sometimes that of the
camera and at other moments, spectator. When he's a camera the pee oh
vee is always on the move, he hates static shots, so he's floating up on a
high crane looking down at the foreshortened figures of the actors, or
he's swooping down to stand invisibly between them, turning slowly on
his heel to achieve a threehundred-and-sixty-degree pan, or maybe he'll
try a dolly shot, tracking along beside Baal and Abu Simbel as they
walk, or hand--held with the help of a steadicam he'll probe the secrets
of the Grandee's bedchamber. But mostly he sits up on Mount Cone
like a paying customer in the dress circle, and Jahilia is his silver screen.
He watches and weighs up the action like any movie fan, enjoys the
fights infidelities moral crises, but there aren't enough girls for a real
hit, man, and where are the goddamn songs? They should have built up
that fairground scene, maybe a cameo role for Pimple Billimoria in a
show-tent, wiggling her famous bazooms.
And then, without warning, Hamza says to Mahound: "Go ask Gibreel,"
and he, the dreamer, feels his heart leaping in alarm, who, me? I'm
supposed to know the answers here? I'm sitting here watching this
picture and now this actor points his finger out at me, who ever heard
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the like, who asks the bloody audience of a "theological" to solve the
bloody plot? -- But as the dream shifts, it's always changing form, he,
Gibreel, is no longer a mere spectator but the central player, the star.
With his old weakness for taking too many roles: yes, yes,, he's not just
playing the archangel but also him, the businessman, the Messenger,
Mahound, coming up the mountain when he comes. Nifty cutting is
required to pull off this double role, the two of them can never be seen
in the same shot, each must speak to empty air, to the imagined
incarnation of the other, and trust to technology to create the missing
vision, with scissors and Scotch tape or, more exotically, with the help
of a travelling mat. Not to be confused ha ha with any magic carpet.
He has understood: that he is afraid of the other, the business-man,
isn't it crazy? The archangel quaking before the mortal man. It's true,
but: the kind of fear you feel when you're on a film set for the very first
time and there, about to make his entrance, is one of the living legends
of the cinema; you think, I'll disgrace myself, I'll dry, I'll corpse, you
want like mad to be _worthy_. You will be sucked along in the
slipstream of his genius, he can make you look good, like a high flier,
but you will know if you aren't pulling your weight and even worse so
will he Gibreel's fear, the fear of the self his dream creates, makes him
struggle against Mahound's arrival, to try and put it off, but he's
coming now, no quesch, and the archangel holds his breath.
Those dreams of being pushed out on stage when you've no business
being there, you don't know the story haven't learned any lines, but
there's a full house watching, watching: feels like that. Or the true story
of the white actress playing a black woman in Shakespeare. She went on
stage and then realized she still had her glasses on, eck, but she had
forgotten to blacken her hands so she couldn't reach up to take the
specs off, double eek: like that also. _Mahound comes to me for
revelation, asking me to choose between monotheist and henotheist
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alternatives, and I'm just some idiot actor having a bhaenchud
nightmare, what the fuck do I know, yaar, what to tell you, help. Help_.
To reach Mount Cone from Jahilia one must walk into dark ravines
where the sand is not white, not the pure sand filtered long ago
through the bodies of sea-cucumbers, but black and dour, sucking light
from the sun. Coney crouches over you like an imaginary beast. You
ascend along its spine. Leaving behind the last trees, white--flowered
with thick, milky leaves, you climb among the boulders, which get
larger as you get higher, until they resemble huge walls and start
blotting out the sun. The lizards arc blue as shadows. Then you are on
the peak, Jahilia behind you, the featureless desert ahead. You descend
on the desert side, and about five hundred feet down you reach the cave,
which is high enough to stand upright in, and whose floor is covered in
miraculous albino sand. As you climb you hear the desert doves calling
your name, and the rocks greet you, too, in your own language, crying
Mahound, Mahound. When you reach the cave you are tired, you lie
down, you fall asleep.
But when he has rested he enters a different sort of sleep, a sort of not —
sleep, the condition that he calls his _listening_, and he feels a
dragging pain in the gut, like something trying to be born, and now
Gibreel, who has been hovering-above-looking-down, feels a confusion,
_who am I_, in these moments it begins to seem that the archangel is
actually _inside the Prophet_, I am the dragging in the gut, I am the
angel being extruded from the sleeper's navel, I emerge, Gibreel
Farishta, while my other self, Mahound, lies _listening_, entranced, I
am bound to him, navel to navel, by a shining cord of light, not
possible to say which of us is dreaming the other. We flow in both
directions along the umbilical cord.
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Today, as well as the overwhelming intensity of Mahound, Gibreel feels
his despair: his doubts. Also, that he is in great need, but Gibreel still
doesn't know his lines ... he listens to the listening-which-is-also-an-
asking. Mahound asks: They were shown miracles but they didn't
believe. They saw you come to me, in full view of the city, and open my
breast, they saw you wash my heart in the waters of Zamzam and
replace it inside my body. Many of them saw this, but still they worship
stones. And when you came at night and flew me to Jerusalem and I
hovered above the holy city, didn't I return and describe it exactly as it
is, accurate down to the last detail? So that there could be no doubting
the miracle, and still they went to Lat. Haven't I already done my best
to make things simple for them? When you carried me up to the Throne
itself, and Allah laid upon the faithful the great burden of forty prayers
a day. On the return journey I met Moses and he said, the burden is too
heavy, go back and plead for less. Four times I went back, four times
Moses said, still too many, go back again. But by the fourth time Allah
had reduced the duty to five prayers and I refused to return. I felt
ashamed to beg any more. In his bounty he asks for five instead of
forty, and still they love Manat, they want Uzza. What can I do? What
shall I recite?
Gibreel remains silent, empty of answers, for Pete's sake, bhai, don't go
asking me. Mahound's anguish is awful. He _asks_: is it possible that
they _are_ angels? Lat, Manat, Uzza . . . can I call them angelic? Gibreel,
have you got sisters? Are these the daughters of God? And he castigates
himself, O my vanity, I am an arrogant man, is this weakness, is it just a
dream of power? Must I betray myself for a seat on the council? Is this
sensible and wise or is it hollow and self-loving? I don't even know if
the Grandee is sincere. Does he know? Perhaps not even he. I am weak
and he's strong, the offer gives him many ways of ruining me. But I,
too, have much to gain. The souls of the city, of the world, surely they
are worth three angels? Is Allah so unbending that he will not embrace
three more to save the human race? -- I don't know anything. -- Should
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God be proud or humble, majestic or simple, yielding or un-? _What
kind of idea is he? What kind am I?
Halfway into sleep, or halfway back to wakefulness, Gibreel Farishta is
often filled with resentment by the non-appearance, in his persecuting
visions, of the One who is supposed to have the answers, _He_ never
turns up, the one who kept away when I was dying, when I needed
needed him. The one it's all about, Allah lshvar God. Absent as ever
while we writhe and suffer in his name.
The Supreme Being keeps away; what keeps returning is this scene, the
entranced Prophet, the extrusion, the cord of light, and then Gibreel in
his dual role is both above-looking-down and below-staring-up. And
both of them scared out of their minds by the transcendence of it.
Gibreel feels paralysed by the presence of the Prophet, by his greatness,
thinks I can't make a sound I'd seem such a goddamn fool. Hamza's
advice: never show your fear: archangels need such advice as well as
water-carriers. An archangel must look composed, what would the
Prophet think if God's Exalted began to gibber with stage fright?
It happens: revelation. Like this: Mahound, still in his notsicep,
becomes rigid, veins bulge in his neck, he clutches at his centre. No, no,
nothing like an epileptic fit, it can't be explained away that easily; what
epileptic fit ever caused day to turn to night, caused clouds to mass
overhead, caused the air to thicken into soup while an angel hung,
scared silly, in the sky above the sufferer, held up like a kite on a golden
thread? The dragging again the dragging and now the miracle starts in
his my our guts, he is straining with all his might at something, forcing
something, and Gibreel begins to feel that strength that force, here it is
_at my own jaw_ working it, opening shutting; and the power, starting
within Mahound, reaching up to _my vocal cords_ and the voice comes.
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_Not my voice_ I'd never know such words I'm no classy speaker never
was never will be but this isn't my voice it's a Voice.
Mahound's eyes open wide, he's seeing some kind of vision, staring at
it, oh, that's right, Gibreel remembers, me. He's seeing me. My lips
moving, being moved by. What, whom? Don't know, can't say.
Nevertheless, here they are, coming out of my mouth, up my throat,
past my teeth: the Words.
Being God's postman is no fun, yaar.
Butbutbut: God isn't in this picture.
God knows whose postman I've been.
In Jahilia they are waiting for Mahound by the well. Khalid the water-
carrier, as ever the most impatient, runs off to the city gate to keep a
look--out. Hamza, like all old soldiers accustomed to keeping his own
company, squats down in the dust and plays a game with pebbles. There
is no sense of urgency; sometimes he is away for days, even weeks. And
today the city is all but deserted; everybody has gone to the great tents
at the fairground to hear the poets compete. In the silence, there is only
the noise of Hamza's pebbles, and the gurgles of a pair of rock-doves,
visitors from Mount Cone. Then they hear the running feet.
Khalid arrives, out of breath, looking unhappy. The Messenger has
returned, but he isn't coming to Zamzam. Now they are all on their
feet, perplexed by this departure from established practice. Those who
have been waiting with palm-fronds and steles ask Hamza: Then there
will be no Message? But Khalid, still catching his breath, shakes his
head. "I think there will be. He looks the way he does when the Word
has been given. But he didn't speak to me and walked towards the
fairground instead."
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Hamza takes command, forestalling discussion, and leads the way. The
disciples -- about twenty have gathered -- follow him to the fleshpots of
the city, wearing expressions of pious disgust. Hamza alone seems to be
looking forward to the fair.
Outside the tents of the Owners of the Dappled Camels they find
Mahound, standing with his eyes closed, steeling himself to the task.
They ask anxious questions; he doesn't answer. After a few moments, he
enters the poetry tent.
Inside the tent, the audience reacts to the arrival of the unpopular
Prophet and his wretched followers with derision. But as Mahound
walks forward, his eyes firmly closed, the boos and catcalls die away and
a silence falls. Mahound does not open his eyes for an instant, but his
steps are sure, and he reaches the stage without stumblings or
collisions. He climbs the few steps up into the light; still his eyes stay
shut. The assembled lyric poets, composers of assassination eulogies,
narrative versifiers and satirists -- Baal is here, of course -- gaze with
amusement, but also with a little unease, at the sleepwalking Mahound.
In the crowd his disciples jostle for room. The scribes fight to be near
him, to take down whatever he might say.
The Grandee Abu Simbel rests against bolsters on a silken carpet
positioned beside the stage. With him, resplendent in golden Egyptian
neckwear, is his wife Hind, that famous Grecian profile with the black
hair that is as long as her body. Abu Simbel rises and calls to Mahound,
"Welcome." He is all urbanity. "Welcome, Mahound, the seer, the
kahin." It's a public declaration of respect, and it impresses the
assembled crowd. The Prophet's disciples are no longer shoved aside,
but allowed to pass. Bewildered, half-pleased, they come to the front.
Mahound speaks without opening his eyes.
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"This is a gathering of many poets," he says clearly, "and I cannot claim
to be one of them. But I am the Messenger, and I bring verses from a
greater One than any here assembled."
The audience is losing patience. Religion is for the temple; J ahilians
and pilgrims alike are here for entertainment. Silence the fellow! Throw
him out! -- But Abu Simbel speaks again. "If your God has really
spoken to you," he says, "then all the world must hear it." And in an
instant the silence in the great tent is complete.
"_The Star_," Mahound cries out, and the scribes begin to write.
"In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful!
"By the Pleiades when they set: Your companion is not in error; neither
is he deviating.
"Nor does he speak from his own desires. It is a revelation that has been
revealed: one mighty in power has taught him.
"He stood on the high horizon: the lord of strength. Then he came
close, closer than the length of two bows, and revealed to his servant
that which is revealed.
"The servant's heart was true when seeing what he saw. Do you, then,
dare to question what was seen?
"I saw him also at the lote--tree of the uttermost end, near which lies
the Garden of Repose. When that tree was covered by its covering, my
eye was not averted, neither did my gaze wander; and I saw some of the
greatest signs of the Lord."
At this point, without any trace of hesitation or doubt, he recites two
further verses.
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"Have you thought upon Lat and Uzza, and Manat, the third, the
other?" -- After the first verse, Hind gets to her feet; the Grandee of
Jahilia is already standing very straight. And Mahound, with silenced
eyes, recites: "They are the exalted birds, and their intercession is
desired indeed."
As the noise -- shouts, cheers, scandal, cries of devotion to the goddess
Al-Lat -- swells and bursts within the marquee, the already astonished
congregation beholds the doubly sensational spectacle of the Grandee
Abu Simbel placing his thumbs upon the lobes of his ears, fanning out
the fingers of both hands and uttering in a loud voice the formula:
"Allahu Akbar." After which he falls to his knees and presses a
deliberate forehead to the ground. His wife, Hind, immediately follows
his lead.
The water-carrier Khalid has remained by the open tent-flap throughout
these events. Now he stares in horror as everyone gathered there, both
the crowd in the tent and the overflow of men and women outside it,
begins to kneel, row by row, the movement rippling outwards from
Hind and the Grandee as though they were pebbles thrown into a lake;
until the entire gathering, outside the tent as well as in, kneels bottom--
in--air before the shuteye Prophet who has recognized the patron
deities of the town. The Messenger himself remains standing, as if loth
to join the assembly in its devotions. Bursting into tears, the water--
carrier flees into the empty heart of the city of the sands. His teardrops,
as he runs, burn holes in the earth, as if they contain some harsh
corrosive acid.
Mahound remains motionless. No trace of moisture can be detected on
the lashes of his unopened eyes.
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On that night of the desolating triumph of the businessman in the tent
of the unbelievers, there take place certain murders for which the first
lady of Jahilia will wait years to take her terrible revenge.
The Prophet's uncle Hamza has been walking home alone, his head
bowed and grey in the twilight of that melancholy victory, when he
hears a roar and looks up, to see a gigantic scarlet lion poised to leap at
him from the high battlements of the city. He knows this beast, this
fable. _The iridescence of its scarlet hide blends into the shimmering
brightness of the desert sands. Through its nostrils it exhales the
horror of the lonely places of the earth. It spits out pestilence, and
when armies venture into the desert, it consumes them utterly_.
Through the blue last light of evening he shouts at the beast, preparing,
unarmed as he is, to meet his death. "Jump, you bastard, manticore. I've
strangled big cats with my bare hands, in my time." When I was
younger. When I was young.
There is laughter behind him, and distant laughter echoing, or so it
seems, from the battlements. He looks around him; the manticore has
vanished from the ramparts. He is surrounded by a group of Jahilians in
fancy dress, returning from the fair and giggling. "Now that these
mystics have embraced our Lat, they are seeing new gods round every
corner, no?" Hamza, understanding that the night will be full of
terrors, returns home and calls for his battle sword. "More than
anything in the world," he growls at the papery valet who has served
him in war and peace for forty-four years, "I hate admitting that my
enemies have a point. Damn sight better to kill the bastards, I've always
thought. Neatest bloody solution." The sword has remained sheathed in
its leather scabbard since the day of his conversion by his nephew, but
tonight, he confides to the valet, "The lion is loose. Peace will have to
wait."
It is the last night of the festival of Ibrahim. Jahilia is masquerade and
madness. The oiled fatty bodies of the wrestlers have completed their
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writhings and the seven poems have been nailed to the walls of the
House of the Black Stone. Now singing whores replace the poets, and
dancing whores, also with oiled bodies, are at work as well; night-
wrestling replaces the daytime variety. The courtesans dance and sing in
golden, bird-beaked masks, and the gold is reflected in their clients'
shining eyes. Gold, gold everywhere, in the palms of the profiteering
Jahilians and their libidinous guests, in the flaming sand--braziers, in
the glowing walls of the night city. Hamza walks dolorously through
the streets of gold, past pilgrims who lie unconscious while cutpurses
earn their living. He hears the wine--blurred carousing through every
golden-gleaming doorway, and feels the song and howling laughter and
coin-chinkings hurting him like mortal insults. But he doesn't find
what he's looking for, not here, so he moves away from the illuminated
revelry of gold and begins to stalk the shadows, hunting the apparition
of the lion.
And finds, after hours of searching, what he knew would be waiting, in
a dark corner of the city's outer walls, the thing of his vision, the red
manticore with the triple row of teeth. The manticorc has blue eyes and
a mannish face and its voice is half-- trumpet and half-flute. It is fast as
the wind, its nails are corkscrew talons and its tail hurls poisone&
quills. It loves to feed on human flesh ... a brawl is taking place.
Knives hissing in the silence, at times the clash of metal against metal.
Hamza recognizes the men under attack: Khalid, Salman, Bilal. A lion
himself now, Hamza draws his sword, roars the silence into shreds, runs
forward as fast as sixty--year--old legs will go. His friends' assailants are
unrecognizable behind their masks.
It has been a night of masks. Walking the debauched Jahilian streets,
his heart full of bile, Hamza has seen men and women in the guise of
eagles, jackals, horses, gryphons, salamanders, wart-- hogs, rocs; welling
up from the murk of the alleys have come two-headed amphisbaenae
and the winged bulls known as Assyrian sphinxes. Djinns, houris,
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demons populate the city on this night of phantasmagoria and lust. But
only now, in this dark place, does he see the red masks he's been
looking for. The manlion masks: he rushes towards his fate.
In the grip of a self-destructive unhappiness the three disciples had
started drinking, and owing to their unfamiliarity with alcohol they
were soon not just intoxicated but stupid-drunk. They stood in a small
piazza and started abusing the passers--by, and after a while the water-
carrier Khalid brandished his water-- skin, boasting. He could destroy
the city, he carried the ultimate weapon. Water: it would cleanse Jahilia
the filthy, wash it away, so that a new start could be made from the
purified white sand. That was when the lion--men started chasing them,
and after a long pursuit they were cornered, the booziness draining out
of them on account of their fear, they were staring into the red masks
of death when Hamza arrived just in time.
. . . Gibreel floats above the city watching the fight. It's quickly over
once Hamza gets to the scene. Two masked assailants run away, two lie
dead. Bilal, Khalid and Salman have been cut, but not too badly. Graver
than their wounds is the news behind the lion--masks of the dead.
"Hind's brothers," Hamza recognizes. "Things are finishing for us
now."
Slayers of manticores, water-terrorists, the followers of Mahound sit
and weep in the shadow of the city wall.
As for him, Prophet Messenger Businessman: his eyes are open now. He
paces the inner courtyard of his house, his wife's house, and will not go
in to her. She is almost seventy and feels these days more like a mother
than a. She, the rich woman, who employed him to manage her caravans
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long ago. His management skills were the first things she liked about
him. And after a time, they were in love. It isn't easy to be a brilliant,
successful woman in a city where the gods are female but the females
are merely goods. Men had either been afraid of her, or had thought her
so strong that she didn't need their consideration. He hadn't been
afraid, and had given her the feeling of constancy she needed. While he,
the orphan, found in her many women in one: mother sister lover sibyl
friend. When he thought himself crazy she was the one who believed in
his visions. "It is the archangel," she told him, "not some fog out of
your head. It is Gibreel, and you are the Messenger of God."
He can't won't see her now. She watches him through a stonelatticed
window. He can't stop walking, moves around the courtyard in a
random sequence of unconscious geometries, his footsteps tracing out a
series of ellipses, trapeziums, rhomboids, ovals, rings. While she
remembers how he would return from the caravan trails full of stories
heard at wayside oases. A prophet, Isa, born to a woman named
Maryam, born of no man under a palm--tree in the desert. Stories that
made his eyes shine, then fade into a distantness. She recalls his
excitability: the passion with which he'd argue, all night if necessary,
that the old nomadic times had been better than this city of gold where
people exposed their baby daughters in the wilderness. In the old tribes
even the poorest orphan would be cared for. God is in the desert, he'd
say, not here in this miscarriage of a place. And she'd reply, Nobody's
arguing, my love, it's late, and tomorrow there are the accounts.
She has long ears; has already heard what he said about Lat, Uzza,
Manat. So what? In the old days he wanted to protect the baby
daughters of Jahilia; why shouldn't he take the daughters of Allah
under his wing as well? But after asking herself this question she shakes
her head and leans heavily on the cool wall beside her stone-screened
window. While below her, her husband walks in pentagons,
parallelograms, six--pointed stars, and then in abstract and increasingly
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labyrinthine patterns for which there are no names, as though unable to
find a simple line.
When she looks into the courtyard some moments later, however, he
has gone.
The Prophet wakes between silk sheets, with a bursting headache, in a
room he has never seen. Outside the window the sun is near its savage
zenith, and silhouetted against the whiteness is a tall figure in a black
hooded cloak, singing softly in a strong, low voice. The song is one that
the women of Jahilia chorus as they drum the men to war.
_Advance and we embrace you_,
_embrace you, embrace you_,
_advance and we embrace you_
_and soft carpets spread_.
_Turn back and we desert you_,
_we leave you, desert you_,
_retreat and we'll not love you_,
_not in love's bed_.
He recognizes Hind's voice, sits up, and finds himself naked beneath
the creamy sheet. He calls to her: "Was I attacked?" Hind turns to him,
smiling her Hind smile. "Attacked?" she mimics him, and claps her
hands for breakfast. Minions enter, bring, serve, remove, scurry off.
Mahound is helped into a silken robe of black and gold; Hind,
exaggeratedly, averts her eyes. "My head," he asks again. "Was I
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struck?" She stands at the window, her head hung low, playing the
demure maid. "Oh, Messenger, Messenger," she mocks him. "What an
ungallant Messenger it is. Couldn't you have come to my room
consciously, of your own will? No, of course not, I repel you, I'm sure."
He will not play her game. "Am I a prisoner?" he asks, and again she
laughs at him. "Don't be a fool." And then, shrugging, relents: "I was
walking the city streets last night, masked, to see the festivities, and
what should I stumble over but your unconscious body? Like a drunk in
the gutter, Mahound. I sent my servants for a litter and brought you
home. Say thank you."
"Thank you."
"I don't think you were recognized," she says. "Or you'd be dead,
maybe. You know how the city was last night. People overdo it. My own
brothers haven't come home yet."
It comes back to him now, his wild anguished walk in the corrupt city,
staring at the souls he had supposedly saved, looking at the simurgh-
effigies, the devil-masks, the behemoths and hippogriffs. The fatigue of
that long day on which he climbed down from Mount Cone, walked to
the town, underwent the strain of the events in the poetry marquee, --
and afterwards, the anger of the disciples, the doubt, -- the whole of it
had overwhelmed him. "I fainted," he remembers.
She comes and sits close to him on the bed, extends a finger, finds the
gap in his robe, strokes his chest. "Fainted," she murmurs. "That's
weakness, Mahound. Are you becoming weak?"
She places the stroking finger over his lips before he can reply. "Don't
say anything, Mahound. I am the Grandee's wife, and neither of us is
your friend. My husband, however, is a weak man. In Jahilia they think
he's cunning, but I know better. He knows I take lovers and he does
nothing about it, because the temples are in my family's care. Lat's,
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Uzza's, Manat's. The -- shall I call them _mosques?_ -- of your new
angels." She offers him melon cubes from a dish, tries to feed him with
her fingers. He will not let her put the fruit into his mouth, takes the
pieces with his own hand, eats. She goes on. "My last lover was the boy,
Baal." She sees the rage on his face. "Yes," she says contentedly. "I
heard he had got under your skin. But he doesn't matter. Neither he
nor Abu Simbel is your equal. But I am."
"I must go," he says. "Soon enough," she replies, returning to the
window. At the perimeter of the city they are packing away the tents,
the long camel--trains are preparing to depart, convoys of carts are
already heading away across the desert; the carnival is over. She turns to
him again.
"I am your equal," she repeats, "and also your opposite. I don't want
you to become weak. You shouldn't have done what you did."
"But you will profit," Mahound replies bitterly. "There's no threat now
to your temple revenues."
"You miss the point," she says softly, coming closer to him, bringing
her face very close to his. "If you are for Allah, I am for Al-Lat. And she
doesn't believe your God when he recognizes her. Her opposition to
him is implacable, irrevocable, engulfing. The war between us cannot
end in truce. And what a truce! Yours is a patronizing, condescending
lord. Al-Lat hasn't the slightest wish to be his daughter. She is his
equal, as I am yours. Ask Baal: he knows her. As he knows me."
"So the Grandee will betray his pledge," Mahound says.
"Who knows?" scoffs Hind. "He doesn't even know himself. He has to
work out the odds. Weak, as I told you. But you know I'm telling the
truth. Between Allah and the Three there can be no peace. I don't want
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it. I want the fight. To the death; that is the kind of idea I am. What
kind are you?"
"You are sand and I am water," Mahound says. "Water washes sand
away."
"And the desert soaks up water," Hind answers him. "Look around
you."
Soon after his departure the wounded men arrive at the Grandee's
palace, having screwed up their courage to inform Hind that old Hamza
has killed her brothers. But by then the Messenger is nowhere to be
found; is heading, once again, slowly towards Mount Cone.
Gibreel, when he's tired, wants to murder his mother for giving him
such a damn fool nickname, _angel_, what a word, he begs _what?
whom?_ to be spared the dream--city of crumbling sandcastles and lions
with three-tiered teeth, no more heart—washing of prophets or
instructions to recite or promises of paradise, let there be an end to
revelations, finito, khattam-shud. What he longs for: black, dreamless
sleep. Mother-fucking dreams, cause of all the trouble in the human
race, movies, too, if I was God I'd cut the imagination right out of
people and then maybe poor bastards like me could get a good night's
rest. Fighting against sleep, he forces his eyes to stay open, unblinking,
until the visual purple fades off the retinas and sends him blind, but
he's only human, in the end he falls down the rabbit-hole and there he
is again, in Wonderland, up the mountain, and the businessman is
waking up, and once again his wanting, his need, goes to work, not on
my jaws and voice this time, but on my whole body; he diminishes me to
his own size and pulls me in towards him, his gravitational field is
unbelievable, as powerful as a goddamn megastar . . . and then Gibreel
and the Prophet are wrestling, both naked, rolling over and over, in the
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cave of the fine white sand that rises around them like a veil. _As if he's
learning me, searching me, as if I'm the one undergoing the test_.
In a cave five hundred feet below the summit of Mount Cone, Mahound
wrestles the archangel, hurling him from side to side, and let me tell
you he's getting in _everywhere_, his tongue in my ear his fist around
my balls, there was never a person with such a rage in him, he has to has
to know he has to K N OW and I have nothing to tell him, he's twice as
physically fit as I am and four times as knowledgeable, minimum, we
may both have taught ourselves by listening a lot but as is plaintosee
he's even a better listener than me; so we roll kick scratch, he's getting
cut up quite a bit but of course my skin stays smooth as a baby, you
can't snag an angel on a bloody thorn-bush, you can't bruise him on a
rock. And they have an audience, there are djinns and afreets and all
sorts of spooks sitting on the boulders to watch the fight, and in the
sky are the three winged creatures, looking like herons or swans or just
women depending on the tricks of the light . . . Mahound finishes it. He
throws the fight.
After they had wrestled for hours or even weeks Mahound was pinned
down beneath the angel, it's what he wanted, it was his will filling me
up and giving me the strength to hold him down, because archangels
can't lose such fights, it wouldn't be right, it's only devils who get
beaten in such circs, so the moment I got on top he started weeping for
joy and then he did his old trick, forcing my mouth open and making
the voice, the Voice, pour out of me once again, made it pour all over
him, like sick.
At the end of his wrestling match with the Archangel Gibreel, the
Prophet Mahound falls into his customary, exhausted, postrevelatory
sleep, but on this occasion he revives more quickly than usual. When he
comes to his senses in that high wilderness there is nobody to be seen,
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no winged creatures crouch on rocks, and hejumps to his feet, filled
with the urgency of his news. "It was the Devil," he says aloud to the
empty air, making it true by giving it voice. "The last time, it was
Shaitan." This is what he has _heard_ in his _listening_, that he has
been tricked, that the Devil came to him in the guise of the archangel,
so that the verses he memorized, the ones he recited in the poetry tent,
were not the real thing but its diabolic opposite, not godly, but satanic.
He returns to the city as quickly as he can, to expunge the foul verses
that reek of brimstone and sulphur, to strike them from the record for
ever and ever, so that they will survive in just one or two unreliable
collections of old traditions and orthodox interpreters will try and
unwrite their story, but Gibreel, hovering-watching from his highest
camera angle, knows one small detail, just one tiny thing that's a bit of
a problem here, namely that _it was me both times, baba, me first and
second also me_. From my mouth, both the statement and the
repudiation, verses and converses, universes and reverses, the whole
thing, and we all know how my mouth got worked.
"First it was the Devil," Mahound mutters as he rushes to Jahilia. "But
this time, the angel, no question. He wrestled me to the ground."
The disciples stop him in the ravines near the foot of Mount Cone to
warn him of the fury of Hind, who is wearing white mourning garments
and has loosened her black hair, letting it fly about her like a storm, or
trail in the dust, erasing her footsteps so that she seems like an
incarnation of the spirit of vengeance itself. They have all fled the city,
and Hamza, too, is lying low; but the word is that Abu Simbel has not,
as yet, acceded to his wife's pleas for the blood that washes away blood.
He is still calculating the odds in the matter of Mahound and the
goddesses Mahound, against his followers' advice, returns to Jahilia,
going straight to the House of the Black Stone. The disciples follow
him in spite of their fear. A crowd gathers in the hope of further
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scandal or dismemberment or some such entertainment. Mahound does
not disappoint them.
He stands in front of the statues of the Three and announces the
abrogation of the verses which Shaitan whispered in his ear. These
verses are banished from the true recitation, _al-qur"an_. New verses
are thundered in their place.
"Shall He have daughters and you sons?" Mahound recites. "That
would be a fine division!
"These are but names you have dreamed of, you and your fathers. Allah
vests no authority in them."
He leaves the dumbfounded House before it occurs to anybody to pick
up, or throw, the first stone.
After the repudiation of the Satanic verses, the Prophet Mahound
returns home to find a kind of punishment awaiting him. A kind of
vengeance -- whose? Light or dark? Goodguy badguy? -- wrought, as is
not unusual, upon the innocent. The Prophet's wife, seventy years old,
sits by the foot of a stone--latticed window, sits upright with her back
to the wall, dead.
Mahound in the grip of his misery keeps himself to himself, hardly says
a word for weeks. The Grandee of Jahilia institutes a policy of
persecution that advances too slowly for Hind. The name of the new
religion is _Submission_; now Abu Simbel decrees that its adherents
must submit to being sequestered in the most wretched, hovel-filled
quarter of the city; to a curfew; to a ban on employment. And there are
many physical assaults, women spat upon in shops, the manhandling of
the faithful by the gangs of young turks whom the Grandee secretly
controls, fire thrown at night through a window to land amongst
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unwary sleepers. And, by one of the familiar paradoxes of history, the
numbers of the faithful multiply, like a crop that miraculously
flourishes as conditions of soil and climate grow worse and worse.
An offer is received, from the citizens of the oasis--settlement of
Yathrib to the north: Yathrib will shelter those--who-submit, if they
wish to leave Jahilia. Hamza is of the opinion that they must go. "You'll
never finish your Message here, nephew, take my word. Hind won't be
happy till she's ripped out your tongue, to say nothing of my balls,
excuse me." Mahound, alone and full of echoes in the house of his
bereavement, gives his consent, and the faithful depart to make their
plans. Khalid the water-carrier hangs back and the hollow-eyed Prophet
waits for him to speak. Awkwardly, he says: "Messenger, I doubted you.
But you were wiser than we knew. First we said, Mahound will never
compromise, and you compromised. Then we said, Mahound has
betrayed us, but you were bringing us a deeper truth. You brought us
the Devil himself, so that we could witness the workings of the Evil
One, and his overthrow by the Right. You have enriched our faith. I am
sorry for what I thought."
Mahound moves away from the sunlight falling through the window.
"Yes." Bitterness, cynicism. "It was a wonderful thing I did. Deeper
truth. Bringing you the Devil. Yes, that sounds like me."
From the peak of Mount Cone, Gibreel watches the faithful escaping
Jahilia, leaving the city of aridity for the place of cool palms and water,
water, water. In small groups, almost empty-- handed, they move across
the empire of the sun, on this first day of the first year at the new
beginning of Time, which has itself been born again, as the old dies
behind them and the new waits ahead. And one day Mahound himself
slips away. When his escape is discovered, Baal composes a valedictory
ode:
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_What kind of idea_
_does "Submission" seem today?_
_One full of fear_.
_An idea that runs away_.
Mahound has reached his oasis; Gibreel is not so lucky. Often, now, he
finds himself alone on the summit of Mount Cone, washed by the cold,
falling stars, and then they fall upon him from the night sky, the three
winged creatures, Lat Uzza Manat, flapping around his head, clawing at
his eyes, biting, whipping him with their hair, their wings. He puts up
his hands to protect himself, but their revenge is tireless, continuing
whenever he rests, whenever he drops his guard. He struggles against
them, but they are faster, nimbler, winged.
He has no devil to repudiate. Dreaming, he cannot wish them away.
III. Ellowen Deeowen
I know what a ghost is, the old woman affirmed silently. Her name was
Rosa Diamond; she was eighty-eight years old; and she was squinting
beakily through her salt-caked bedroom windows, watching the full
moon's sea. And I know what it isn't, too, she nodded further, it isn't a
scarification or a flapping sheet, so pooh and pish to all _that_
bunkum. What's a ghost? Unfinished business, is what. -- At which the
old lady, six feet tall, straight--backed, her hair hacked short as any
man's, jerked the corners of her mouth downwards in a satisfied,
tragedy-mask pout, -- pulled a knitted blue shawl tight around bony
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shoulders, -- and closed, for a moment, her sleepless eyes, to pray for
the past's return. Come on, you Norman ships, she begged: let's have
you, Willie-the-Conk.
Nine hundred years ago all this was under water, this portioned shore,
this private beach, its shingle rising steeply towards the little row of
flaky-paint villas with their peeling boathouses crammed full of
deckchairs, empty picture frames, ancient tuckboxes stuffed with
bundles of letters tied up in ribbons, mothballed silk--and-lace lingerie,
the tearstained reading matter of once--young girls, lacrosse sticks,
stamp albums, and all the buried treasure--chests of memories and lost
time. The coastline had changed, had moved a mile or more out to sea,
leaving the first Norman castle stranded far from water, lapped now by
marshy land that afflicted with all manner of dank and boggy agues the
poor who lived there on their whatstheword _estates_. She, the old lady,
saw the castle as the ruin of a fish betrayed by an antique ebbing tide,
as a sea-monster petrified by time. Nine hundred years! Nine centuries
past, the Norman fleet had sailed right through this Englishwoman's
home. On clear nights when the moon was full, she waited for its
shining, revenant ghost.
Best place to see 'em come, she reassured herself, grandstand view.
Repetition had become a comfort in her antiquity; the well-worn
phrases, _unfinished business, grandstand view_, made her feel solid,
unchanging, sempiternal, instead of the creature of cracks and absences
she knew herself to be. -- When the full moon sets, the dark before the
dawn, that's their moment. Billow of sail, flash of oars, and the
Conqueror himself at the flagship's prow, sailing up the beach between
the barnacled wooden breakwaters and a few inverted sculls. -- O, I've
seen things in my time, always had the gift, the phantom-sight. -- The
Conqueror in his pointy metal-nosed hat, passing through her front
door, gliding betwixt the cakestands and antimacassared sofas, like an
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echo resounding faintly through that house of remembrances and
yearnings; then falling silent; _as the grave_.
-- Once as a girl on Battle Hill, she was fond of recounting, always in
the same time--polished words, -- once as a solitary child, I found
myself, quite suddenly and with no sense of strangeness, in the middle
of a war. Longbows, maces, pikes. The flaxen-Saxon boys, cut down in
their sweet youth. Harold Arroweye and William with his mouth full of
sand. Yes, always the gift, the phantom-sight. -- The story of the day on
which the child Rosa had seen a vision of the battle of Hastings had
become, for the old woman, one of the defining landmarks of her being,
though it had been told so often that nobody, not even the teller, could
confidently swear that it was true. _I long for them sometimes_, ran
Rosa's practised thoughts. _Les beaux jours: the dear, dead days_. She
closed, once more, her reminiscent eyes. When she opened them, she
saw, down by the water's edge, no denying it, something beginning to
move.
What she said aloud in her excitement: "I don't believe it!" -- "It isn't
true!" -- "He's never _here!_" -- On unsteady feet, with bumping chest,
Rosa went for her hat, cloak, stick. While, on the winter seashore,
Gibreel Farishta awoke with a mouth full of, no, not sand.
Snow.
Ptui!
Gibreel spat; leapt up, as if propelled by expectorated slush; wished
Chamcha -- as has been reported -- many happy returns of the day; and
commenced to beat the snow from sodden purple sleeves. "God, yaar,"
he shouted, hopping from foot to foot, "no wonder these people grow
hearts of bloody ice."
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Then, however, the pure delight of being surrounded by such a quantity
of snow quite overcame his first cynicism -- for he was a tropical man --
and he started capering about, saturnine and soggy, making snowballs
and hurling them at his prone companion, envisioning a snowman, and
singing a wild, swooping rendition of the carol "Jingle Bells". The first
hint of light was in the sky, and on this cosy sea-coast danced Lucifer,
the morning's star.
His breath, it should be mentioned, had somehow or other wholly
ceased to smell . . .
"Come on, baby," cried invincible Gibreel, in whose behaviour the
reader may, not unreasonably, perceive the delirious, dislocating effects
of his recent fall. "Rise "n" shine! Let's take this place by storm."
Turning his back on the sea, blotting out the bad memory in order to
make room for the next things, passionate as always for newness, he
would have planted (had he owned one) a flag, to claim in the name of
whoknowswho this white country, his new-found land. "Spoono," he
pleaded, "shift, baba, or are you bloody dead?" Which being uttered
brought the speaker to (or at least towards) his senses. He bent over the
other's prostrate form, did not dare to touch. "Not now, old Chumch,"
he urged. "Not when we came so far."
Saladin: was not dead, but weeping. The tears of shock freezing on his
face. And all his body cased in a fine skin of ice, smooth as glass, like a
bad dream come true. In the miasmic semi--consciousness induced by
his low body temperature he was possessed by the nightmare-fear of
cracking, of seeing his blood bubbling up from the ice-breaks, of his
flesh coming away with the shards. He was full of questions, did we
truly, I mean, with your hands flapping, and then the waters, you don't
mean to tell me they _actually_, like in the movies, when Charlton
Heston stretched out his staff, so that we could, across the ocean--floor,
it never happened, couldn't have, but if not then how, or did we in
some way underwater, escorted by the mermaids, the sea passing
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through us as if we were fish or ghosts, was that the truth, yes or no, I
need to have to.. . but when his eyes opened the questions acquired the
indistinctness of dreams, so that he could no longer grasp them, their
tails flicked before him and vanished like submarine fins. He was
looking up at the sky, and noticed that it was the wrong colour entirely,
blood-orange flecked with green, and the snow was blue as ink. He
blinked hard but the colours refused to change, giving rise to the
notion that he had fallen out of the sky into some wrongness, some
other place, not England or perhaps not-England, some counterfeit
zone, rotten borough, altered state. Maybe, he considered briefly: Hell?
No, no, he reassured himself as unconsciousness threatened, that can't
be it, not yet, you aren't dead yet; but dying.
Well then: a transit lounge.
He began to shiver; the vibration grew so intense that it occurred to
him that he might break up under the stress, like a, like a, plane.
Then nothing existed. He was in a void, and if he were to survive he
would have to construct everything from scratch, would have to invent
the ground beneath his feet before he could take a step, only there was
no need now to worry about such matters, because here in front of him
was the inevitable: the tall, bony figure of Death, in a wide-brimmed
straw hat, with a dark cloak flapping in the breeze. Death, leaning on a
silverheaded cane, wearing olive-green Wellington boots.
"What do you imagine yourselves to be doing here?" Death wanted to
know. "This is private property. There's a sign." Said in a woman's
voice that was somewhat tremulous and more than somewhat thrilled.
A few moments later, Death bent over him -- _to kiss me_, he panicked
silently. _To suck the breath from my body_. He made small, futile
movements of protest.
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"He's alive all right," Death remarked to, who was it, Gibreel. "But, my
dear. His breath: what a pong. When did he last clean his teeth?"
One man's breath was sweetened, while another's, by an equal and
opposite mystery, was soured. What did they expect? Falling like that
out of the sky: did they imagine there would be no sideeffects? Higher
Powers had taken an interest, it should have been obvious to them both,
and such Powers (I am, of course, speaking of myself) have a
mischievous, almost a wanton attitude to tumbling flies. And another
thing, let's be clear: great falls change people. You think _they_ fell a
long way? In the matter of tumbles, I yield pride of place to no
personage, whether mortal or im--. From clouds to ashes, down the
chimney you might say, from heavenlight to hellfire. . . under the stress
of a long plunge, I was saying, mutations are to be expected, not all of
them random. Unnatural selections. Not much of a price to pay for
survival, for being reborn, for becoming new, and at their age at that.
What? I should enumerate the changes?
Good breath/bad breath.
And around the edges of Gibreel Farishta's head, as he stood with his
back to the dawn, it seemed to Rosa Diamond that she discerned a
faint, but distinctly golden, _glow_.
And were those bumps, at Chamcha's temples, under his sodden and
still-in-place bowler hat?
And, and, and.
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When she laid eyes on the bizarre, satyrical figure of Gibreel Farishta
prancing and dionysiac in the snow, Rosa Diamond did not think of
_say it_ angels. Sighting him from her window, through salt--cloudy
glass and age--clouded eyes, she felt her heart kick out, twice, so
painfully that she feared it might stop; because in that indistinct form
she seemed to discern the incarnation of her soul's most deeply buried
desire. She forgot the Norman invaders as if they had never been, and
struggled down a slope of treacherous pebbles, too quickly for the
safety of her not-quitenonagenarian limbs, so that she could pretend to
scold the impossible stranger for trespassing on her land.
Usually she was implacable in defence of her beloved fragment of the
coast, and when summer weekenders strayed above the high tide line
she descended upon them _like a wolf on the fold_, her phrase for it, to
explain and to demand: -- This is my garden, do you see. -- And if they
grew brazen, -- getoutofitsillyoldmoo, itsthesoddingbeach, -- she would
return home to bring out a long green garden hose and turn it
remorselessly upon their tartan blankets and plastic cricket bats and
bottles of sun--tan lotion, she would smash their children's sandcastles
and soak their liver-- sausage sandwiches, smiling sweetly all the while:
_You won't mind if I fust water my lawn?_ . . . O, she was a One, known
in the village, they couldn't lock her away in any old folks' home, sent
her whole family packing when they dared to suggest it, never darken
her doorstep, she told them, cut the whole lot off without a penny or a
by your leave. All on her own now, she was, never a visitor from week to
blessed week, not even Dora Shufflebotham who went in and did for her
all those years, Dora passed over September last, may she rest, still it's a
wonder at her age how the old trout manages, all those stairs, she may
be a bit of a bee but give the devil her due, there's many"s'd go barmy
being that alone.
For Gibreel there was neither a hosepipe nor the _sharp end_ of her
tongue. Rosa uttered token words of reproof, held her nostrils while
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examining the fallen and newly sulphurous Saladin (who had not, at
this point, removed his bowler hat), and then, with an access of shyness
which she greeted with nostalgic astonishment, stammered an
invitation, yyou bbetter bring your ffriend in out of the cccold, and
stamped back up the shingle to put the kettle on, grateful to the bite of
the winter air for reddening her cheeks and _saving_, in the old
comforting phrase, _her blushes_.
As a young man Saladin Chamcha had possessed a face of quite
exceptional innocence, a face that did not seem ever to have
encountered disillusion or evil, with skin as soft and smooth as a
princess's palm. It had served him well in his dealings with women, and
had, in point of fact, been one of the first reasons his future wife
Pamela Lovelace had given for falling in love with him. "So round and
cherubic," she marvelled, cupping her hands under his chin. "Like a
rubber ball."
He was offended. "I've got bones," he protested. "Bone _structure_."
"Somewhere in there," she conceded. "Everybody does."
After that he was haunted for a time by the notion that he looked like a
featureless jellyfish, and it was in large part to assuage this feeling that
he set about developing the narrow, haughty demeanour that was now
second nature to him. It was, therefore, a matter of some consequence
when, on arising from a long slumber racked by a series of intolerable
dreams, prominent among which were images of Zeeny Vakil,
transformed into a mermaid, singing to him from an iceberg in tones of
agonizing sweetness, lamenting her inability to join him on dry land,
calling him, calling; -- but when he went to her she shut him up fast in
the heart of her ice-mountain, and her song changed to one of triumph
and revenge. . . it was, I say, a serious matter when Saladin Chamcha
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woke up, looked into a mirror framed in blue-and-gold Japonaiserie
lacquer, and found that old cherubic face staring out at him once again;
while, at his temples, he observed a brace of fearfully discoloured
swellings, indications that he must have suffered, at some point in his
recent adventures, a couple of mighty blows.
Looking into the mirror at his altered face, Chamcha attempted to
remind himself of himself. I am a real man, he told the mirror, with a
real history and a planned-out future. I am a man to whom certain
things are of importance: rigour, self—discipline, reason, the pursuit of
what is noble without recourse to that old crutch, God. The ideal of
beauty, the possibility of exaltation, the mind. I am: a married man. But
in spite of his litany, perverse thoughts insisted on visiting him. As for
instance: that the world did not exist beyond that beach down there,
and, now, this house. That if he weren't careful, if he rushed matters,
he would fall off the edge, into clouds. Things had to be _made_. Or
again: that if he were to telephone his home, right now, as he should, if
he were to inform his loving wife that he was not dead, not blown to
bits in mid-air but right here, on solid ground, if he were to do this
eminently sensible thing, the person who answered the phone would
not recognize his name. Or thirdly: that the sound of footsteps ringing
in his ears, distant footsteps, but coming closer, was not some
temporary tinnitus caused by his fall, but the noise of some
approaching doom, drawing closer, letter by letter, ellowen, deeowen,
London. _Here I am, in Grandmother's house. Her big eyes, hands,
teeth_.
There was a telephone extension on his bedside table. There, he
admonished himself. Pick it up, dial, and your equilibrium will be
restored. Such maunderings: they aren't like you, not worthy of you.
Think of her grief; call her now.
It was night-time. He didn't know the hour. There wasn't a clock in the
room and his wristwatch had disappeared somewhere along the line.
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Should he shouldn't he? -- He dialled the nine numbers. A man's voice
answered on the fourth ring.
"What the hell?" Sleepy, unidentifiable, familiar.
"Sorry," Saladin Chamcha said. "Excuse, please. Wrong number."
Staring at the telephone, he found himself remembering a drama
production seen in Bombay, based on an English original, a story by, by,
he couldn't put his finger on the name, Tennyson? No, no. Somerset
Maugham? -- To hell with it. -- In the original and now authorless text,
a man, long thought dead, returns after an absence of many years, like a
living phantom, to his former haunts. He visits his former home at
night, surreptitiously, and looks in through an open window. He finds
that his wife, believing herself widowed, has re-married. On the
window-sill he sees a child's toy. He spends a period of time standing in
the darkness, wrestling with his feelings; then picks the toy off the
ledge; and departs forever, without making his presence known. In the
Indian version, the story had been rather different. The wife had
married her husband's best friend. The returning husband arrived at
the door and marched in, expecting nothing. Seeing his wife and his old
friend sitting together, he failed to understand that they were married.
He thanked his friend for comforting his wife; but he was home now,
and so all was well. The married couple did not know how to tell him
the truth; it was, finally, a servant who gave the game away. The
husband, whose long absence was apparently due to a bout of amnesia,
reacted to the news of the marriage by announcing that he, too, must
surely have re-married at some point during his long absence from
home; unfortunately, however, now that the memory of his former life
had returned he had forgotten what had happened during the years of
his disappearance. He went off to ask the police to trace his new wife,
even though he could remember nothing about her, not her eyes, not
the simple fact of her existence.
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The curtain fell.
Saladin Chamcha, alone in an unknown bedroom in unfamiliar red-and-
white striped pyjamas, lay face downwards on a narrow bed and wept.
"Damn all Indians," he cried into the muffling bedclothes, his fists
punching at frilly--edged pillowcases from Harrods in Buenos Aires so
fiercely that the fifty-year--old fabric was ripped to shreds. "_What the
hell_. The vulgarity of it, the _sod it sod it_ indelicacy. _What the hell_.
That bastard, those bastards, their lack of _bastard_ taste."
It was at this moment that the police arrived to arrest him.
On the night after she had taken the two of them in from the beach,
Rosa Diamond stood once again at the nocturnal window of her old
woman's insomnia, contemplating the nine-hundredyear--old sea. The
smelly one had been sleeping ever since they put him to bed, with hot-
water bottles packed in tightly around him, best thing for him, let him
get his strength. She had put them upstairs, Chamcha in the spare room
and Gibreel in her late husband's old study, and as she watched the
great shining plain of the sea she could hear him moving up there, amid
the ornithological prints and bird-call whistles of the former Henry
Diamond, the bolas and bullwhip and aerial photographs of the Los
Alamos estancia far away and long ago, a man's footsteps in that room,
how reassuring they felt. Farishta was pacing up and down, avoiding
sleep, for reasons of his own. And below his footfall Rosa, looking up at
the ceiling, called him in a whisper by a long-unspoken name. Martin
she said. His last name the same as that of his country's deadliest
snake, the viper. The vibora, _de la Cruz_.
At once she saw the shapes moving on the beach, as if the forbidden
name had conjured up the dead. Not again, she thought, and went for
her opera-glasses. She returned to find the beach full of shadows, and
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this time she was afraid, because whereas the Norman fleet came
sailing, when it came, proudly and openly and without recourse to
subterfuge, these shades were sneaky, emitting stifled imprecations and
alarming, muted yaps and barks, they seemed headless, crouching, arms
and legs a--dangle like giant, unshelled crabs. Scuttling, sidelong, heavy
boots crunching on shingle. Lots of them. She saw them reach her
boathouse on which the fading image of an eyepatched pirate grinned
and brandished a cutlass, and that was too much, _I'm not having it_,
she decided, and, stumbling downstairs for warm clothing, she fetched
the chosen weapon of her retribution: a long coil of green garden hose.
At her front door she called out in a clear voice. "I can see you quite
plainly. Come out, come out, whoever you are."
They switched on seven suns and blinded her, and then she panicked,
illuminated by the seven blue-white floodlights around which, like
fireflies or satellites, there buzzed a host of smaller lights: lanterns
torches cigarettes. Her head was spinning, and for a moment she lost
her ability to distinguish between _then_ and _now_, in her
consternation she began to say Put out that light, don't you know
there's a blackout, you'll be having Jerry down on us if you carry on so.
"I'm raving," she realized disgustedly, and banged the tip of her stick
into her doormat. Whereupon, as if by magic, policemen materialized in
the dazzling circle of light.
It turned out that somebody had reported a suspicious person on the
beach, remember when they used to come in fishingboats, the illegals,
and thanks to that single anonymous telephone call there were now
fifty-seven uniformed constables combing the beach, their flashlights
swinging crazily in the dark, constables from as far away as Hastings
Eastbourne Bexhill-upon-Sea, even a deputation from Brighton because
nobody wanted to miss the fun, the thrill of the chase. Fifty-seven
beachcombers were accompanied by thirteen dogs, all sniffing the sea
air and lifting excited legs. While up at the house away from the great
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posse of men and dogs, Rosa Diamond found herself gazing at the five
constables guarding the exits, front door, ground-floor windows,
scullery door, in case the putative miscreant attempted an alleged
escape; and at the three men in plain clothes, plain coats and plain hats
with faces to match; and in front of the lot of them, not daring to look
her in the eye, young Inspector Lime, shuffling his feet and rubbing his
nose and looking older and more bloodshot than his forty years. She
tapped him on the chest with the end of her stick, _at this time of
night, Frank, u"hat's the meaning of_, but he wasn't going to allow her
to boss him around, not tonight, not with the men from the
immigration watching his every move, so he drew himself up and pulled
in his chins.
"Begging your pardon, Mrs. D. -- certain allegations, -- information laid
before us, -- reason to believe, -- merit investigation, -- necessary to
search your, -- a warrant has been obtained."
"Don't be absurd, Frank dear," Rosa began to say, but just then the
three men with the plain faces drew themselves up and seemed to
stiffen, each of them with one leg slightly raised, like pointer dogs; the
first began to emit an unusual hiss of what sounded like pleasure, while
a soft moan escaped from the lips of the second, and the third
commenced to roll his eyes in an oddly contented way. Then they all
pointed past Rosa Diamond, into her floodlit hallway, where Mr.
Saladin Chamcha stood, his left hand holding up his pyjamas because a
button had come off when he hurled himself on to his bed. With his
right hand he was rubbing at an eye.
"Bingo," said the hissing man, while the moaner clasped .his hands
beneath his chin to indicate that all his prayers had been answered, and
the roller of eyes shouldered past Rosa Diamond, without standing on
ceremony, except that he did mutter, "Madam, pardon _me_."
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Then there was a flood, and Rosa was jammed into a corner of her own
sitting-room by that bobbing sea of police helmets, so that she could no
longer make out Saladin Chamcha or hear what he was saying. She
never heard him explain about the detonation of the _Bostan_ -- there's
been a mistake, he cried, I'm not one of your fishing-boat sneakers-in,
not one of your ugandokenyattas, me. The policemen began to grin, I
see, sir, at thirty thousand feet, and then you swam ashore. You have
the right to remain silent, they tittered, but quite soon they burst out
into uproarious guffaws, we've got a right one here and no mistake. But
Rosa couldn't make out Saladin's protests, the laughing policemen got
in the way, you've got to believe me, I'm a British, he was saying, with
right of abode, too, but when he couldn't produce a passport or any
other identifying document they began to weep with mirth, the tears
streaming down even the blank faces of the plain-clothes men from the
immigration service. Of course, don't tell me, they giggled, they fell out
of your jacket during your tumble, or did the mermaids pick your
pocket in the sea? Rosa couldn't see, in that laughter-heaving surge of
men and dogs, what uniformed arms might be doing to Chamcha's
arms, or fists to his stomach, or boots to his shins; nor could she be
sure if it was his voice crying out or just the howling of the dogs. But
she did, finally, hear his voice rise in a last, despairing shout: "Don't
any of you watch TV? Don't you see? I'm Maxim. Maxim Alien."
"So you are," said the popeyed officer. "And I am Kermit the Frog."
What Saladin Chamcha never said, not even when it was clear that
something had gone badly wrong: "Here is a London number," he
neglected to inform the arresting policemen. "At the other end of the
line you will find, to vouch for me, for the truth of what I'm saying, my
lovely, white, English wife." No, sir. _What the hell_.
Rosa Diamond gathered her strength. "Just one moment, Frank Lime,"
she sang out. "You look here," but the three plain men had begun their
bizarre routine of hiss moan roll--eye once again, and in the sudden
147
silence of that room the eye-roller pointed a trembling finger at
Chamcha and said, "Lady, if it's proof you're after, you couldn't do
better than _those_."
Saladin Chamcha, following the line of Popeye's pointing finger, raised
his hands to his forehead, and then he knew that he had woken into the
most fearsome of nightmares, a nightmare that had only just begun,
because there at his temples, growing longer by the moment, and sharp
enough to draw blood, were two new, goaty, unarguable horns.
Before the army of policemen took Saladin Chamcha away into his new
life, there was one more unexpected occurrence. Gibreel Farishta, seeing
the blaze of lights and hearing the delirious laughter of the law-
enforcement officers, came downstairs in a maroon smoking jacket and
jodhpurs, chosen from Henry Diamond's wardrobe. Smelling faintly of
mothballs, he stood on the first-floor landing and observed the
proceedings without comment. He stood there unnoticed until
Chamcha, handcuffed and on his way out to the Black Maria, barefoot,
still clutching his pyjamas, caught sight of him and cried out, "Gibreel,
for the love of God tell them what's what."
Hisser Moaner Popeye turned eagerly towards Gibreel. "And who might
this be?" inquired Inspector Lime. "Another skydiver?"
But the words died on his lips, because at that moment the floodlights
were switched off, the order to do so having been given when Chamcha
was handcuffed and taken in charge, and in the aftermath of the seven
suns it became clear to everyone there that a pale, golden light was
emanating from the direction of the man in the smoking jacket, was in
fact streaming softly outwards from a point immediately behind his
head. Inspector Lime never referred to that light again, and if he had
148
been asked about it would have denied ever having seen such a thing, a
halo, in the late twentieth century, pull the other one.
But at any rate, when Gibreel asked, "What do these men want?", every
man there was seized by the desire to answer his question in literal,
detailed terms, to reveal their secrets, as if he were, as if, but no,
ridiculous, they would shake their heads for weeks, until they had all
persuaded themselves that they had done as they did for purely logical
reasons, he was Mrs. Diamond's old friend, the two of them had found
the rogue Chamcha halfdrowned on the beach and taken him in for
humanitarian reasons, no call to harass either Rosa or Mr. Farishta any
further, a more reputable looking gentleman you couldn't wish to see,
in his smoking jacket and his, his, well, eccentricity never was a crime,
anyhow.
"Gibreel," said Saladin Chamcha, "help."
But Gibreel's eye had been caught by Rosa Diamond. He looked at her,
and could not look away. Then he nodded, and went back upstairs. No
attempt was made to stop him.
When Chamcha reached the Black Maria, he saw the traitor, Gibreel
Farishta, looking down at him from the little balcony outside Rosa's
bedroom, and there wasn't any light shining around the bastard's head.
_Kan an ma kan/Fi qadim azzaman_ ... It was so, it was not, in a time
long forgot, that there lived in the silver-land of Argentina a certain
Don Enrique Diamond, who knew much about birds and little about
women, and his wife, Rosa, who knew nothing about men but a good
deal about love. One day it so happened that when the sefiora was out
riding, sitting sidesaddle and wearing a hat with a feather in it, she
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arrived at the Diamond estancia's great stone gates, which stood
insanely in the middle of the empty pampas, to find an ostrich running
at her as hard as it could, running for its life, with all the tricks and
variations it could think of; for the ostrich is a crafty bird, difficult to
catch. A little way behind the ostrich was a cloud of dust full of the
noises of hunting men, and when the ostrich was within six feet of her
the cloud sent bolas to wrap around its legs and bring it crashing to the
ground at her grey mare's feet. The man who dismounted to kill the
bird never took his eyes off Rosa's face. He took a silver-hafted knife
from a scabbard at his belt and plunged it into the bird's throat, all the
way up to the hilt, and he did it without once looking at the dying
ostrich, staring into Rosa Diamond's eyes while he knelt on the wide
yellow earth. His name was Martin de la Cruz.
After Chamcha had been taken away, Gibreel Farishta often wondered
about his own behaviour. In that dreamlike moment when he had been
trapped by the eyes of the old Englishwoman it had seemed to him that
his will was no longer his own to command, that somebody else's needs
were in charge. Owing to the bewildering nature of recent events, and
also to his determination to stay awake as much as possjble, it was a few
days before he connected what was going on to the world behind his
eyelids, and only then did he understand that he had to get away,
because the universe of his nightmares had begun to leak into his
waking life, and if he was not careful he would never manage to begin
again, to be reborn with her, through her, Alleluia, who had seen the
roof of the world.
He was shocked to realize that he had made no attempt to contact Allie
at all; or to help Chamcha in his time of need. Nor had he been at all
perturbed by the appearance on Saladin's head of a pair of fine new
horns, a thing that should surely have occasioned some concern. He had
been in some sort of trance, and when he asked the old dame what she
thought of it all she smiled weirdly and told him that there was nothing
150
new under the sun, she had seen things, the apparitions of men with
horned helmets, in an ancient land like England there was no room for
new stories, every blade of turf had already been walked over a hundred
thousand times. For long periods of the day her talk became rambling
and confused, but at other times she insisted on cooking him huge
heavy meals, shepherd's pies, rhubarb crumble with thick custard,
thick--gravied hotpots, all manner of weighty soups. And at all times
she wore an air of inexplicable contentment, as if his presence had
satisfied her in some deep, unlookedfor way. He went shopping in the
village with her; people stared; she ignored them, waving her imperious
stick. The days passed. Gibreel did not leave.
"Blasted English mame," he told himself. "Some type of extinct species.
What the hell am I doing here?" But stayed, held by unseen chains.
While she, at every opportunity, sang an old song, in Spanish, he
couldn't understand a word. Some sorcery there? Some ancient Morgan
Le Fay singing a young Merlin into her crystal cave? Gibreel headed for
the door; Rosa piped up; he stopped in his tracks. "Why not, after all,"
he shrugged. "The old woman needs company. Faded grandeur, I swear!
Look what she's come to here. Anyhow, I need the rest. Gather my
forces. Just a coupla days."
In the evenings they would sit in that drawing-room stuffed with silver
ornaments, including on the wall a certain silver-hafted knife, beneath
the plaster bust of Henry Diamond that stared down from the top of
the corner cabinet, and when the grandfather clock struck six he would
pour two glasses of sherry and she would begin to talk, but not before
she said, as predictably as clockwork, _Grandfather is always four
minutes late, for good manners, he doesn't like to be too punctual_.
Then she began without bothering with onceuponatime, and whether it
was all true or all false he could see the fierce energy that was going
into the telling, the last desperate reserves of her will that she was
putting into her story, _the only bright time I can remember_, she told
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him, so that he perceived that this memory-jumbled rag-bag of material
was in fact the very heart of her, her self-portrait, the way she looked in
the mirror when nobody else was in the room, and that the silver land
of the past was her preferred abode, not this dilapidated house in which
she was constantly bumping into things, -- knocking over coffee-tables,
bruising herself on doorknobs -- bursting into tears, and crying out:
_Everything shrinks_.
When she sailed to Argentina in 1935 as the bride of the Anglo-
Argentine Don Enrique of Los Alamos, he pointed to the ocean and
said, that's the pampa. You can't tell how big it is by looking at it. You
have to travel through it, the unchangingness, day after day. In some
parts the wind is strong as a fist, but it's completely silent, it'll knock
you flat but you'll never hear a thing. No trees is why: not an ombii, not
a poplar, nada. And you have to watch out for ombii leaves, by the way.
Deadly poison. The wind won't kill you but the leaf-juice can. She
clapped her hands like a child: Honestly, Henry, silent winds, poisonous
leaves. You make it sound like a fairy-story. Henry, fairhaired, soft-
bodied, wide-eyed and ponderous, looked appalled. _Oh, no_, he said.
_It's not so bad as that_.
She arrived in that immensity, beneath that infinite blue vault of sky,
because Henry popped the question and she gave the only answer that a
forty-year-old spinster could. But when she arrived she asked herself a
bigger question: of what was she capable in all that space? What did she
have the courage for, how could she _expand?_ To be good or bad, she
told herself: but to be _new_. Our neighbour Doctor Jorge Babington,
she told Gibreel, never liked me, you know, he would tell me tales of the
British in South America, always such gay blades, he said
contemptuously, spies and brigands and looters. _Are you such exotics
in your cold England?_ he asked her, and answered his own question,
_sefiora, I don't think so. Crammed into that coffin of an island, you
must find wider horizons to express these secret selves_.
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Rosa Diamond's secret was a capacity for love so great that it soon
became plain that her poor prosaic Henry would never fulfil it, because
whatever romance there was in that jellied frame was reserved for birds.
Marsh hawks, screamers, snipe. In a small rowing boat on the local
lagunas he spent his happiest days amid the buirushes with his field-
glasses to his eyes. Once on the train to Buenos Aires he embarrassed
Rosa by demonstrating his favourite bird-calls in the dining-car,
cupping his hands around his mouth: sleepyhead bird, vanduria ibis,
trupial. Why can't you love me this way, she wanted to ask. But never
did, because for Henry she was a good sort, and passion was an
eccentricity of other races. She became the generalissimo of the
homestead, and tried to stifle her wicked longings. At night she took to
walking out into the pampa and lying on her back to look at the galaxy
above, and sometimes, under the influence of that bright flow of
beauty, she would begin to tremble all over, to shudder with a deep
delight, and to hum an unknown tune, and this star-music was as close
as she came to joy.
Gibreel Farishta: felt her stories winding round him like a web, holding
him in that lost world where _fifty sat down to dinner every day, what
men they were, our gauchos, nothing servile there, very fierce and
proud, very. Pure carnivores; you can see it in the pictures_. During the
long nights of their insomnia she told him about the heat-haze that
would come over the pampa so that the few trees stood out like islands
and a rider looked like a mythological being, galloping across the
surface of the ocean. _It was like the ghost of the sea_. She told him
campfire stories, for example about the atheist gaucho who disproved
Paradise, when his mother died, by calling upon her spirit to return,
every night for seven nights. On the eighth night he announced that she
had obviously not heard him, or she would certainly have come to
console her beloved son; therefore, death must be the end. She snared
him in descriptiSns of the days when the Peron people came in their
white suits and slicked down hair and the peons chased them off, she
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cold him how the railroads were built by the Anglos to service their
estancias, and the dams, too, the story, for example, of her friend
Claudette, "a real heartbreaker, my dear, married an engineer chap
name of Granger, disappointed half the Hurlingham. Off they went to
some dam he was building, and next thing they heard, the rebels were
coming to blow it up. Granger went with the men to guard the dam,
leaving Claudette alone with the maid, and wouldn't you know, a few
hours later, the maid came running, senora, ees one hombre at the door,
ees as beeg as a house. What else? A rebel captain. -- "And your spouse,
madame?" -- "Waiting for you at the dam, as he should be." -- "Then
since he has not seen fit to protect you, the revolution will." And he left
guards outside the house, my dear, quite a thing. But in the fighting
both men were killed, husband and captain and Claudette insisted on a
joint funeral, watched the two coffins going side by side into the
ground, mourned for them both. After that we knew she was a
dangerous lot, _trop fatale_, eh? What? _Trop_ jolly _fatale_." In the
tall story of the beautiful Clau-- dette, Gibreel heard the music of
Rosa's own longings. At such moments he would catch sight of her
looking at him from the corners of her eyes, and he would feel a
tugging in the region of his navel, as if something were trying to come
out. Then she looked away, and the sensation faded. Perhaps it was only
a sideeffect of stress.
He asked her one night if she had seen the horns growing on Chamcha's
head, but she went deaf and, instead of answering, told him how she
would sit on a camp stool by the galpon or bull-pen at Los Alamos and
the prize bulls would come up and lay their horned heads in her lap.
One afternoon a girl named Aurora del Sol, who was the fiancee of
Martin de la Cruz, let fall a saucy remark: I thought they only did that
in the laps of virgins, she stage-whispered to her giggling friends, and
Rosa turned to her sweetly and replied, Then perhaps, my dear, you
would like to try? From that time Aurora del Sol, the best dancer at the
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estancia and the most desirable oi all the peon women, became the
deadly enemy of the too-tall, too-bony woman from over the sea.
"You look just like him," Rosa Diamond said as they stood at her night-
time window, side by side, looking out to sea. "His double. Martin de la
Cruz." At the mention of the cowboy's name Gibreel felt so violent a
pain in his navel, a pulling pain, as if somebody had stuck a hook in his
stomach, that a cry escaped his lips. Rosa Diamond appeared not to
hear. "Look," she cried happily, "over there."
Running along the midnight beach in the direction of the Martello
tower and the holiday camp, -- running along the water's edge so that
the incoming tide washed away its footprints, -- swerving and feinting,
running for its life, there came a fullgrown, large--as--life ostrich. Down
the beach it fled, and Gibreel's eyes followed it in wonder, until he
could no longer make it out in the dark.
The next thing that happened took place in the village. They had gone
into town to collect a cake and a bottle of champagne, because Rosa
had remembered that it was her eighty-ninth birthday. Her family had
been expelled from her life, so there had been no cards or telephone
calls. Gibreel insisted that they should hold some sort of celebration,
and showed her the secret inside his shirt, a fat money-belt full of
pounds sterling acquired on the black market before leaving Bombay.
"Also credit cards galore," he said. "I am no indigent fellow. Come, let
us go. My treat." He was now so deeply in thrall to Rosa's narrative
sorcery that he hardly remembered from day to day that he had a life to
go to, a woman to surprise by the simple fact of his being alive, or any
such thing. Trailing behind her meekly, he carried Mrs. Diamond's
shopping-bags.
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He was loafing around on a Street corner while Rosa chatted to the
baker when he felt, once again, that dragging hook in his stomach, and
he fell against a lamp--post and gasped for air. He heard a clip-clopping
hoise, and then around the corner came an archaic pony-trap, full of
young people in what seemed at first sight to be fancy dress: the men in
tight black trousers studded at the calf with silver buttons, their white
shirts open almost to the waist; the women in wide skirts of frills and
layers and bright colours, scarlet, emerald, gold. They were Singing in a
foreign language and their gaiety made the street look dim and tawdry,
but Gibreel realized that something weird was afoot, because nobody
else in the street took the slightest notice of the ponytrap. Then Rosa
emerged from the baker's with the cake-box dangling by its ribbon from
the index finger of her left hand, and exclaimed: "Oh, there they are,
arriving for the dance. We always had dances, you know, they like it, it's
in their blood." And, after a pause: "That was the dance at which he
killed the vulture."
That was the dance at which a certain Juan Julia, nicknamed The
Vulture on account of his cadaverous appearance, drank too much and
insulted the honour of Aurora del Sol, and didn't stop until Martin had
no option but to fight, _hey Martin, why you enjoy fi4cking with this
one, I thought she was pretty dull_. "Let us go away from the dancing,"
Martin said, and in the darkness, silhouetted against the fairy-lights
hung from the trees around the dance-floor, the two men wrapped
ponchas around their forearms, drew their knives, circled, fought. Juan
died. Martin de la Cruz picked up the dead man's hat and threw it at
the feet of Aurora del Sol. She picked up the hat and watched him walk
away.
Rosa Diamond at eighty-nine in a long silver sheath dress with a
cigarette holder in one gloved hand and a silver turban on her head
drank gin-and-sin from a green glass triangle and told stories of the
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good old days. "I want to dance," she announced suddenly. "It's my
birthday and I haven't danced once."
The exertions of that night on which Rosa and Gibreel danced until
dawn proved too much for the old lady, who collapsed into bed the next
day with a low fever that induced ever more delirious apparitions:
Gibreel saw Martin de la Cruz and Aurora del Sol dancing flamenco on
the tiled and gabled roof of the Diamond house, and Peronistas in
white suits stood on the boathouse to address a gathering of peons
about the future: "Under Peron these lands will be expropriated and
distributed among the people. The British railroads also will become
the property of the state. Let's chuck them out, these brigands, these
privateers ..." The plaster bust of Henry Diamond hung in mid-air,
observing the scene, and a white--suited agitator pointed a finger at
him and cried, That's him, your oppressor; there is the enemy. Gibreel's
stomach ached so badly that he feared for his life, but at the very
moment that his rational mind was considering the possibility of an
ulcer or appendicitis, the rest of his brain whispered the truth, which
was that he was being held prisoner and manipulated by the force of
Rosa's will, just as the Angel Gibreel had been obliged to speak by the
overwhelming need of the Prophet, Mahound.
"She's dying," he realized. "Not long to go, either." Tossing in her bed
in the fever's grip Rosa Diamond muttered about ombii poison and the
enmity of her neighbour Doctor Babington, who asked Henry, is your
wife perhaps quiet enough for the pastoral life, and who gave her (as a
present for recovering from typhus) a copy of Amerigo Vespucci's
account of his voyages. "The man was a notorious fantasist, of course,"
Babington smiled, "but fantasy can be stronger than fact; after all, he
had continents named after him." As she grew weaker she poured more
and more of her remaining strength into her own dream of Argentina,
and Gibreel's navel felt as if it had been set on fire. He lay slumped in
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an armchair at her bedside and the apparitions multiplied by the hour.
Woodwind music filled the air, and, most wonderful of all, a small
white island appeared just off the shore, bobbing on the waves like a
raft; it was white as snow, with white sand sloping up to a clump of
albino trees, which were white, chalk--white, paper--white, to the very
tips of their leaves.
After the arrival of the white island Gibreel was overcome by a deep
lethargy. Slumped in an armchair in the bedroom of the dying woman,
his eyelids drooping, he felt the weight of his body increase until all
movement became impossible. Then he was in another bedroom, in
tight black trousers, with silver buttons along the calves and a heavy
silver buckle at the waist. _You sent for me, Don Enrique_, he was
saying to the soft, heavy man with a face like a white plaster bust, but
he knew who had asked for him, and he never took his eyes from her
face, even when he saw the colour rising from the white frill around her
neck.
Henry Diamond had refused to permit the authorities to become
involved in the matter of Martin de la Cruz, _these people are my
responsibility_, he told Rosa, _it is a question of honour_. Instead he
had gone to some lengths to demonstrate his continuing trust in the
killer, de la Cruz, for example by making him the captain of the
estancia polo team. But Don Enrique was never really the same once
Martin had killed the Vulture. He was more and more easily exhausted,
and became listless, uninterested even in birds. Things began to come
apart at Los Alamos, imperceptibly at first, then more obviously. The
men in the white suits returned and were not chased away. When Rosa
Diamond contracted typhus, there were many at the estancia who took
it for an allegory of the old estate's decline.
_What am I doing here_, Gibreel thought in great alarm, as he stood
before Don Enrique in the rancher's study, while Dona Rosa blushed in
the background, _this is someone else's place_. -- Great confidence in
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you, Henry was saying, not in English but Gibreel could still
understand. -- My wife is to undertake a motor tour, for her
convalescence, and you will accompany . . . Responsibilities at Los
Alamos prevent me from going along. _Now I must speak, what to say_,
but when his mouth opened the alien words emerged, it will be my
honour, Don Enrique, click of heels, swivel, exit.
Rosa Diamond in her eighty-nine-year-old weakness had begun to
dream her story of stories, which she had guarded for more than half a
century, and Gibreel was on a horse behind her Hispano-Suiza, driving
from estancia to estancia, through a wood of arayana trees, beneath the
high cordillera, arriving at grotesque homesteads built in the style of
Scottish castles or Indian palaces, visiting the land of Mr. Cadwallader
Evans, he of the seven wives who were happy enough to have only one
night of duty each per week, and the territory of the notorious
MacSween who had become enamoured of the ideas arriving in
Argentina from Germany, and had started flying, from his estancia's
flagpole, a red flag at whose heart a crooked black cross danced in a
white circle. It was on the MacSween estancia that they came across the
lagoon, and Rosa saw for the first time the white island of her fate, and
insisted on rowing out for a picnic luncheon, accompanied neither by
maid nor by chauffeur, taking only Martin de la Cruz to row the boat
and to spread a scarlet cloth upon the white sand and to serve her with
meat and wine.
_As white as snow and as red as blood and as black as ebony_. As she
reclined in black skirt and white blouse, lying upon scarlet which itself
lay over white, while he (also wearing black and white) poured red wine
into the glass in her white-gloved hand, -- and then, to his own
astonishment, _bloody goddamn_, as he caught at her hand and began
to kiss, -- something happened, the scene grew blurred, one minute they
were lying on the scarlet cloth, rolling all over it so that cheeses and
cold cuts and salads and pates were crushed beneath the weight of their
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desire, and when they returned to the Hispano-Suiza it was impossible
to conceal anything from chauffeur or maid on account of the
foodstains all over their clothes, -- while the next minute she was
recoiling from him, not cruelly but in sadness, drawing her hand away
and making a tiny gesture of the head, no, and he stood, bowed,
retreated, leaving her with virtue and lunch intact, -- the two
possibilities kept alternating, while dying Rosa tossed on her bed, did-
she-didn't-she, making the last version of the story of her life, unable
to decide what she wanted to be true.
"I'm going crazy," Gibreel thought. "She's dying, but I'm losing my
mind." The moon was out, and Rosa's breathing was the only sound in
the room: snoring as she breathed in and exhaling heavily, with small
grunting noises. Gibreel tried to rise from his chair, and found he could
not. Even in these intervals between the visions his body remained
impossibly heavy. As if a boulder had been placed upon his chest. And
the images, when they came, continued to be confused, so that at one
moment he was in a hayloft at Los Alamos, making love to her while she
murmured his name, over and over, _Martin of the Cross_, -- and the
next moment she was ignoring him in broad daylight beneath the
watching eyes of a certain Aurora del Sol, -- so that it was not possible
to distinguish memory from wishes, or guilty reconstructions from
confessional truths, -- because even on her deathbed Rosa Diamond did
not know how to look her history in the eye.
Moonlight streamed into the room. As it struck Rosa's face it appeared
to pass right through her, and indeed Gibreel was beginning to be able
to make out the pattern of the lace embroidery on her pillowcase. Then
he saw Don Enrique and his friend, the puritanical and disapproving
Dr. Babington, standing on the balcony, as solid as you could wish. It
occurred to him that as the apparitions increased in clarity Rosa grew
fainter and fainter, fading away, exchanging places, one might say, with
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the ghosts. And because he had also understood that the manifestations
depended on him, his stomach--ache, his stone--like weightiness, he
began to fear for his own life as well.
"You wanted me to falsify Juan Julia's death certificate," Dr. Babington
was saying. "I did so out of our old friendship. But it was wrong to do
so; and I see the result before me. You have sheltered a killer and it is,
perhaps, your conscience that is eating you away. Go home, Enrique. Go
home, and take that wife of yours, before something worse happens."
"I am home," Henry Diamond said. "And I take exception to your
mention of my wife."
"Wherever the English settle, they never leave England," Dr. Babington
said as he faded into the moonlight. "Unless, like Dona Rosa, they fall
in love."
A cloud passed across the moonlight, and now that the balcony was
empty Gibreel Farishta finally managed to force himself out of the chair
and on to his feet. Walking was like dragging a ball and chain across the
floor, but he reached the window. In every direction, and as far as he
could see, there were giant thistles waving in the breeze. Where the sea
had been there was now an ocean of thistles, extending as far as the
horizon, thistles as high as a full-grown man. He heard the disembodied
voice of Dr. Babington mutter in his ear: "The first plague of thistles
for fifty years. The past, it seems, returns." He saw a woman running
through the thick, rippling growth, barefoot, with loose dark hair. "She
did it," Rosa's voice said clearly behind him. "After betraying him with
the Vulture and making him into a murderer. He wouldn't look at her
after that. Oh, she did it all right. Very dangerous one, that one. Very."
Gibreel lost sight of Aurora del Sol in the thistles; one mirage obscured
another.
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He felt something grab him from behind, spin him around and fling
him flat on his back. There was nobody to be seen, but Rosa Diamond
was sitting bolt upright in bed, staring at him wide-eyed, making him
understand that she had given up hope of clinging on to life, and
needed him to help her complete the last revelation. As with the
businessman of his dreams, he felt helpless, ignorant . . . she seemed to
know, however, how to draw the images from him. Linking the two of
them, navel to navel, he saw a shining cord.
Now he was by a pond in the infinity of the thistles, allowing his horse
to drink, and she came riding up on her mare. Now he was embracing
her, loosening her garments and her hair, and now they were making
love. Now she was whispering, how can you like me, I am so much older
than you, and he spoke comforting words.
Now she rose, dressed, rode away, while he remained there, his body
languid and warm, failing to notice the moment when a woman's hand
stole out of the thistles and took hold of his silver--hafted knife. . .
No! No! No, this way!
Now she rode up to him by the pond, and the moment she dismounted,
looking nervously at him, he fell upon her, he told her he couldn't bear
her rejections any longer, they fell to the ground together, she
screamed, he tore at her clothes, and her hands, clawing at his body,
came upon the handle of a knife...
No! No, never, no! This way: here!
Now the two of them were making love, tenderly, with many slow
caresses; and now a third rider entered the clearing by the pool, and the
lovers rushed apart; now Don Enrique drew his small pistol and aimed
at his rival's heart, --.
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-- and he felt Aurora stabbing him in the heart, over and over, this is for
Juan, and this is for abandoning me, and this is for your grand English
whore, --.
-- and he felt his victim's knife entering his heart, as Rosa stabbed him,
once, twice, and again, --.
-- and after Henry's bullet had killed him the Englishman took the dead
man's knife and stabbed him, many times, in the bleeding wound.
Gibreel, screaming loudly, lost consciousness at this point.
When he regained his senses the old woman in the bed was speaking to
herself, so softly that he could barely make out the words. "The
pampero came, the south-west wind, flattening the thistles. That's
when they found him, or was it before." The last of the story. How
Aurora del Sol spat in Rosa Diamond's face at the funeral of Martin de
la Cruz. How it was arranged that nobody was to be charged for the
murder, on condition that Don Enrique took Dona Rosa and returned
to England with all speed. How they boarded the train at the Los
Alamos station and the men in white suits stood on the platform,
wearing borsalino hats, making sure they really left. How, once the
train had started moving, Rosa Diamond opened the holdall on the seat
beside her, and said defiantly, _I brought something. A little souvenir_.
And unwrapped a cloth bundle to reveal a gaucho's silver-hafted knife.
"Henry died the first winter home. Then nothing happened. The war.
The end." She paused. "To diminish into this, after being in that
vastness. It isn't to be borne." And, after a further silence: "Everything
shrinks."
There was a change in the moonlight, and Gibreel felt a weight lifting
from him, so rapidly that he thought he might float up towards the
ceiling. Rosa Diamond lay still, eyes closed, her arms resting on the
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patchwork counterpane. She looked: _normal_. Gibreel realized that
there was nothing to prevent him from walking out of the door.
He made his way downstairs carefully, his legs still a little unsteady;
found the heavy gabardine overcoat that had once belonged to Henry
Diamond, and the grey felt trilby inside which Don Enrique's name had
been sewn by his wife's own hand; and left, without looking back. The
moment he got outside a wind snatched his hat and sent it skipping
down the beach. He chased it, caught it, jammed it back on. _London
shareef, here I come_. He had the city in his pocket: Geographers'
London, the whole dog-eared metropolis, A to Z.
"What to do?" he was thinking. "Phone or not phone? No, just turn up,
ring the bell and say, baby, your wish came true, from sea bed to your
bed, takes more than a plane crash to keep me away from you. -- Okay,
maybe not quite, but words to that effect. -- Yes. Surprise is the best
policy. Allie Bibi, boo to you."
Then he heard the singing. It was coming from the old boathouse with
the one-eyed pirate painted on the outside, and the song was foreign,
but familiar: a song that Rosa Diamond had often hummed, and the
voice, too, was familiar, although a little different, less quavery;
_younger_. The boathouse door was unaccountably unlocked, and
banging in the wind. He went towards the song.
"Take your coat off," she said. She was dressed as she had been on the
day of the white island: black skirt and boots, white silk blouse, hatless.
He spread the coat on the boathouse floor, its bright scarlet lining
glowing in the confined, moonlit space. She lay down amid the random
clutter of an English life, cricket stumps, a yellowed lampshade,
chipped vases, a folding table, trunks; and extended an arm towards
him. He lay down by her side.
"How can you like me?" she murmured. "I am so much older than you."
164
When they pulled his pyjamas down in the windowless police van and
he saw the thick, tightly curled dark hair covering his thighs, Saladin
Chamcha broke down for the second time that night; this time,
however, he began to giggle hysterically, infected, perhaps, by the
continuing hilarity of his captors. The three immigration officers were
in particularly high spirits, and it was one of these -- the popeyed fellow
whose name, it transpired, was Stein -- who had "de— bagged" Saladin
with a merry cry of, "Opening time, Packy; let's see what you're made
of!" Red-and-white stripes were dragged off the protesting Chamcha,
who was reclining on the floor of the van with two stout policemen
holding each arm and a fifth constable's boot placed firmly upon his
chest, and whose protests went unheard in the general mirthful din. His
horns kept banging against things, the wheel--arch, the uncarpeted
floor or a policeman's shin -- on these last occasions he was soundly
buffeted about the face by the understandably irate law—enforcement
officer -- and he was, in sum, in as miserably low spirits as he could
recall. Nevertheless, when he saw what lay beneath his borrowed
pyjamas, he could not prevent that disbelieving giggle from escaping
past his teeth.
His thighs had grown uncommonly wide and powerful, as well as hairy.
Below the knee the hairiness came to a halt, and his legs narrowed into
tough, bony, almost fleshless calves, terminating in a pair of shiny,
cloven hoofs, such as one might find on any billy-goat. Saladin was also
taken aback by the sight of his phallus, greatly enlarged and
embarrassingly erect, an organ that he had the greatest difficulty in
acknowledging as his own. "What's this, then?" joked Novak -- the
former "Hisser" -- giving it a playful tweak. "Fancy one of us, maybe?"
Whereupon the "moaning" immigration officer, Joe Bruno, slapped his
thigh, dug Novak in the ribs, and shouted, "Nah, that ain't it. Seems
165
like we really got his goat." "I get it," Novak shouted back, as his fist
accidentally punched Saladin in his newly enlarged testicles. "Hey!
Hey!" howled Stein, with tears in his eyes. "Listen, here's an even better
... no wonder he's so fucking _horny_."
At which the three of them, repeating many times "Got his goat. . .
horny.. ." fell into one another's arms and howled with delight.
Chamcha wanted to speak, but was afraid that he would find his voice
mutated into goat--bleats, and, besides, the policeman's boot had
begun to press harder than ever on his chest, and it was hard to form
any words. What puzzled Chamcha was that a circumstance which
struck him as utterly bewildering and unprecedented -- that is, his
metamorphosis into this supernatural imp -- was being treated by the
others as if it were the most banal and familiar matter they could
imagine. "This isn't England," he thought, not for the first or last time.
How could it be, after all; where in all that moderate and common--
sensical land was there room for such a police van in whose interior
such events as these might plausibly transpire? He was being forced
towards the conclusion that he had indeed died in the exploding
aeroplane and that everything that followed had been some sort of
after-life. If that were the case, his long—standing rejection of the
Eternal was beginning to look pretty foolish. -- But where, in all this,
was any sign of a Supreme Being, whether benevolent or malign? Why
did Purgatory, or Hell, or whatever this place might be, look so much
like that Sussex of rewards and fairies which every schoolboy knew? --
Perhaps, it occurred to him, he had not actually perished in the
_Bostan_ disaster, but was lying gravely ill in some hospital ward,
plagued by delirious dreams? This explanation appealed to him, not
least because it unmade the meaning of a certain late-night telephone
call, and a man's voice that he was trying, unsuccessfully, to forget . . .
He felt a sharp kick land on his ribs, painful and realistic enough to
make him doubt the truth of all such hallucination-theories. He
returned his attention to the actual, to this present comprising a sealed
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police van containing three immigration officers and five policemen
that was, for the moment at any rate, all the universe he possessed. It
was a universe of fear.
Novak and the rest had snapped out of their happy mood. "Animal,"
Stein cursed him as he administered a series of kicks, and Bruno joined
in: "You're all the same. Can't expect animals to observe civilized
standards. Eh?" And Novak took up the thread: "We're talking about
fucking personal hygiene here, you little fuck."
Chamcha was mystified. Then he noticed that a large number of soft,
pellety objects had appeared on the floor of the Black Maria. He felt
consumed by bitterness and shame. It seemed that even his natural
processes were goatish now. The humiliation of it! He was -- had gone
to some lengths to become -- a sophisticated man! Such degradations
might be all very well for riff-raff from villages in Sylhet or the bicycle-
repair shops of Gujranwala, but he was cut from different cloth! "My
good fellows," he began, attempting a tone of authority that was pretty
difficult to bring off from that undignified position on his back with
his hoofy legs wide apart and a soft tumble of his own excrement all
about him, "my good fellows, you had best understand your mistake
before it's too late."
Novak cupped a hand behind an ear. "What's that? What was that
noise?" he inquired, looking about him, and Stein said, "Search me."
"Tell you what it sounded like," Joe Bruno volunteered, and with his
hands around his mouth he bellowed: "Maaaa-aa!" Then the three of
them all laughed once more, so that Saladin had no way of telling if
they were simply insulting him or if his vocal cords had truly been
infected, as he feared, by this macabre demoniasis that had overcome
him without the slightest warning. He had begun to shiver again. The
night was extremely cold.
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The officer, Stein, who appeared to be the leader of the trinity, or at
least the primus inter pares, returned abruptly to the subject of the
pellety refuse rolling around the floor of the moving van. "In this
country," he informed Saladin, "we clean up our messes."
The policemen stopped holding him down and pulled him into a
kneeling position. "That's right," said Novak, "clean it up." Joe Bruno
placed a large hand behind Chamcha's neck and pushed his head down
towards the pellet-littered floor. "Off you go," he said, in a
conversational voice. "Sooner you start, sooner you'll polish it off."
Even as he was performing (having no option) the latest and basest
ritual of his unwarranted humiliation, -- or, to put it another way, as
the circumstances of his miraculously spared life grew ever more
infernal and outre -- Saladin Chamcha began to notice that the three
immigration officers no longer looked or acted nearly as strangely as at
first. For one thing, they no longer resembled one another in the
slightest. Officer Stein, whom his colleagues called "Mack" or "Jockey",
turned out to be a large, burly man with a thick roller--coaster of a
nose; his accent, it now transpired, was exaggeratedly Scottish. "Tha's
the ticket," he remarked approvingly as Chamcha munched miserably
on. "An actor, was it? I'm partial to watchin" a guid man perform."
This observation prompted Officer Novak -- that is, "Kim" -- who had
acquired an alarmingly pallid colouring, an ascetically bony face that
reminded one of medieval icons, and a frown suggesting some deep
inner torment, to burst into a short peroration about his favourite
television soap--opera stars and gameshow hosts, while Officer Bruno,
who struck Chamcha as having grown exceedingly handsome all of a
sudden, his hair shiny with styling gel and centrally divided, his blond
beard contrasting dramatically with the darker hair on his head, --
Bruno, the youngest of the three, asked lasciviously, what about
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watchin" girls, then, that's my game. This new notion set the three of
them off into all manner of half-completed anecdotes pregnant with
suggestions of a certain type, but when the five policemen attempted to
join in they joined ranks, grew stern, and put the constables in their
places. "Little children," Mr. Stein admonished them, "should be seen
an" no hearrud."
By this time Chamcha was gagging violently on his meal, forcing
himself not to vomit, knowing that such an error would only prolong
his misery. He was crawling about on the floor of the van, seeking out
the pellets of his torture as they rolled from side to side, and the
policemen, needing an outlet for the frustration engendered by the
immigration officer's rebuke, began to abuse Saladin roundly and pull
the hair on his rump to increase both his discomfort and his
discomfiture. Then the five policemen defiantly started up their own
version of the immigration officers' conversation, and set to analysing
the merits of divers movie stars, darts players, professional wrestlers
and the like; but because they had been put into a bad humour by the
loftiness of "Jockey" Stein, they were unable to maintain the abstract
and intellectual tone of their superiors, and fell to quarrelling over the
relative merits of the Tottenham Hotspur "double" team of the early
1960s and the mighty Liverpool side of the present day, -- in which the
Liverpool supporters incensed the Spurs fans by alleging that the great
Danny Blanchflower was a "luxury" player, a cream puff, fldwer by
name, pansy by nature; -- whereupon the offended claque responded by
shouting that in the case of Liverpool it was the supporters who were
the bum-boys, the Spurs mob could take them apart with their arms
tied behind their backs. Of course all the constables were familiar with
the techniques of football hooligans, having spent many Saturdays with
their backs to the game watching the spectators in the various stadiums
up and down the country, and as their argument grew heated they
reached the point of wishing to demonstrate, to their opposing
colleagues, exactly what they meant by "tearing apart", " bollocking",
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"bottling" and the like. The angry factions glared at one another and
then, all together, they turned to gaze upon the person of Saladin
Chamcha.
Well, the ruckus in that police van grew noisier and noisier, -- and it's
true to say that Chamcha was partly to blame, because he had started
squealing like a pig, -- and the young bobbies were thumping and
gouging various parts of his anatomy, using him both as a guinea-pig
and a safety-valve, remaining careful, in spite of their excitation, to
confine their blows to his softer, more fleshy parts, to minimize the risk
of breakages and bruises; and when Jockey, Kim and Joey saw what their
juniors were getting up to, they chose to be tolerant, because boys
would have their fun.
Besides, all this talk of watching had brought Stein, Bruno and Novak
round to an examination of weightier matters, and now, with solemn
faces and judicious voices, they were speaking of the need, in this day
and age, for an increase in observation, not merely in the sense of
"spectating", but in that of "watchfulness", and "surveillance". The
young constables' experience was extremely relevant, Stein intoned:
watch the crowd, not the game. "Eternal vigilance is the price o"
liberty," he proclaimed.
"Eek," cried Chamcha, unable to avoid interrupting. "Aargh, unnhh,
owoo."
After a time a curious mood of detachment fell upon Saladin. He no
longer had any idea of how long they had been travelling in the Black
Maria of his hard fall from grace, nor could he have hazarded a guess as
to the proximity of their ultimate destination, even though the tinnitus
in his ears was growing gradually louder, those phantasmal
grandmother's footsteps, ellowen, deeowen, London. The blows raining
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down on him now felt as soft as a lover's caresses; the grotesque sight
of his own metamorphosed body no longer appalled him; even the last
pellets of goatexcrement failed to stir his much--abused stomach.
Numbly, he crouched down in his little world, trying to make himself
smaller and smaller, in the hope that he might eventually disappear
altogether, and so regain his freedom.
The talk of surveillance techniques had reunited immigration officers
and policemen, healing the breach caused by Jockey Stein's words of
puritanical reproof. Chamcha, the insect on the floor of the van, heard,
as if through a telephone scrambler, the faraway voices of his captors
speaking eagerly of the need for more video equipment at public events
and of the benefits of computerized information, and, in what appeared
to be a complete contradiction, of the efficacy of placing too rich a
mixture in the nosebags of police horses on the night before a big
match, because when equine stomach--upsets led to the marchers being
showered with shit it always provoked them into violence, _an" then we
can really get amongst them, can't we just_. Unable to find a way of
making this universe of soap operas, matchoftheday, cloaks and daggers
cohere into any recognizable whole, Chamcha closed his ears to the
chatter and listened to the footsteps in his ears.
Then the penny dropped.
"Ask the Computer!"
Three immigration officers and five policemen fell silent as the foul--
smelling creature sat up and hollered at them. "What's he on about?"
asked the youngest policeman -- one of the Tottenham supporters, as it
happened -- doubtfully. "Shall I fetch him another whack?"
"My name is Salahuddin Chamchawala, professional name Saladin
Chamcha," the demi-goat gibbered. "I am a member of Actors' Equity,
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the Automobile Association and the Garrick Club. My car registration
number is suchandsuch. Ask the Computer. Please."
"Who're you trying to kid?" inquired one of the Liverpool fans, but he,
too, sounded uncertain. "Look at yourself. You're a fucking Packy billy.
Sally-who? -- What kind of name is that for an Englishman?"
Chamcha found a scrap of anger from somewhere. "And what about
them?" he demanded, jerking his head at the immigration officers.
"They don't sound so Anglo-Saxon to me."
For a moment it seemed that they might all fall upon him and tear him
limb from limb for such temerity, but at length the skull-faced Officer
Novak merely slapped his face a few times while replying, "I'm from
Weybridge, you cunt. Get it straight: Weybridge, where the fucking
_Beatles_ used to live."
Stein said: "Better check him out." Three and a half minutes later the
Black Maria came to a halt and three immigration officers, five
constables and one police driver held a crisis conference -- _here's a
pretty effing pickle_ -- and Chamcha noted that in their new mood all
nine had begun to look alike, rendered equal and identical by their
tension and fear. Nor was it long before he understood that the call to
the Police National Computer, which had promptly identified him as a
British Citizen first class, had not improved his situation, but had
placed him, if anything, in greater danger than before.
-- We could say, -- one of the nine suggested, -- that he was lying
unconscious on the beach. -- Won't work, -- came the reply, on account
of the old lady and the other geezer. -- Then he resisted arrest and
turned nasty and in the ensuing altercation he kind of fainted. -- Or the
old bag was ga-ga, made no sense to any of us, and the other guy
wossname never spoke up, and as for this bugger, you only have to
clock the bleeder, looks like the very devil, what were we supposed to
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chink? -- And then he went and passed out on us, so what could we do,
in all fairness, I ask you, your honour, but bring him in to the medical
facility at the Detention Centre, for proper care followed by observation
and questioning, using our reason-to-believe guidelines; what do you
reckon on something of that nature? -- It's nine against one, but the
old biddy and the second bloke make it a bit of a bastard. -- Look, we
can fix the tale later, first thing like I keep saying is to get him
unconscious. -- Right.
Chamcha woke up in a hospital bed with green slime coming up from
his lungs. His bones felt as if somebody had put them in the icebox for
a long while. He began to cough, and when the fit ended nineteen and a
half minutes later he fell back into a shallow, sickly sleep without
having taken in any aspect of his present whereabouts. When he
surfaced again a friendly woman's face was looking down at him,
smiling reassuringly. "You goin to be fine," she said, patting him on the
shoulder. "A lickle pneumonia is all you got." She introduced herself as
his physiotherapist, Hyacinth Phillips. And added, "I never judge a
person by appearances. No, sir. Don't you go thinking I do."
With that, she rolled him over on to his side, placed a small cardboard
box by his lips, hitched up her white housecoat, kicked off her shoes,
and leaped athletically on to the bed to sit astride him, for all the world
as if he were a horse that she meant to ride right through the screens
surrounding his bed and out into goodness knew what manner of
transmogrified landscape. "Doctor's orders," she explained. "Thirty--
minute sessions, twice a day." Without further preamble, she began
pummelling him briskly about the middle body, with fightly clenched,
but evidently expert, fists.
For poor Saladin, fresh from his beating in the police van, this new
assault was the last straw. He began to struggle beneath her pounding
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fists, crying loudly, "Let me out of here; has anybody informed my
wife?" The effort of shouting out induced a second coughing spasm
that lasted seventeen and three--quarter minutes and earned him a
telling off from the physiotherapist, Hyacinth. "You wastin my time,"
she said. "I should be done with your right lung by now and instead I
hardly get started. You go behave or not?" She had remained on the
bed, straddling him, bouncing up and down as his body convulsed, like
a rodeo rider hanging on for the nine-second bell. He subsided in
defeat, and allowed her to beat the green fluid out of his inflamed
lungs. When she finished he was obliged to admit that he felt a good
deal better. She removed the little box which was now half-full of slime
and said cheerily, "You be standin up firm in no time," and then,
colouring in confusion, apologized, "Excuse _me_," and fled without
remembering to pull back the encircling screens.
"Time to take stock of the situation," he told himself. A quick physical
examination informed him that his new, mutant condition had
remained unchanged. This cast his spirits down, and he realized that he
had been half-hoping that the nightmare would have ended while he
slept. He was dressed in a new pair of alien pyjamas, this time of an
undifferentiated pale green colour, which matched both the fabric of
the screens and what he could see of the walls and ceiling of that
cryptic and anonymous ward. His legs still ended in those distressing
hoofs, and the horns on his head were as sharp as before ... he was
distracted from this morose inventory by a man's voice from nearby,
crying out in heart-rending distress: "Oh, if ever a body suffered ... !"
"What on earth?" Chamcha thought, and determined to investigate. But
now he was becoming aware of many other sounds, as unsettling as the
first. It seemed to him that he could hear all sorts of animal noises: the
snorting of bulls, the chattering of monkeys, even the pretty--polly
mimic-squawks of parrots or talking budgerigars. Then, from another
direction, he heard a woman grunting and shrieking, at what sounded
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like the end of a painful labour; followed by the yowling of a new-born
baby. However, the woman's cries did not subside when the baby's
began; if anything, they redoubled in their intensity, and perhaps
fifteen minutes later Chamcha distinctly heard a second infant's voice
joining the first. Still the woman's birth-agony refused to end, and at
intervals ranging from fifteen to thirty minutes for what seemed like an
endless time she continued to add new babies to the already improbable
numbers marching, like conquering armies, from her womb.
His nose informed him that the sanatorium, or whatever the place
called itself, was also beginning to stink to the heavens; jungle and
farmyard odours mingled with a rich aroma similar to that of exotic
spices sizzling in clarified butter -- coriander, turmeric, cinnamon,
cardamoms, cloves. "This is too much," he thought firmly. "Time to get
a few things sorted out." He swung his legs out of bed, tried to stand
up, and promptly fell to the floor, being utterly unaccustomed to his
new legs. It took him around an hour to overcome this problem --
learning to walk by holding on to the bed and stumbling around it
until his confidence grew. At length, and not a little unsteadily, he
made his way to the nearest screen; whereupon the face of the
immigration officer Stein appeared, Cheshire-Cat--like, between two of
the screens to his left, followed rapidly by the rest of the fellow, who
drew the screens together behind him with suspicious rapidity.
"Doing all right?" Stein asked, his smile remaining wide.
"When can I see the doctor? When can I go to the toilet? When can I
leave?" Chamcha asked in a rush. Stein answered equably: the doctor
would be round presently; Nurse Phillips would bring him a bedpan; he
could leave as soon as he was well. "Damn decent of you to come down
with the lung thing," Stein added, with the gratitude of an author
whose character had unexpectedly solved a ticklish technical problem.
"Makes the story much more convincing. Seems you were that sick, you
did pass out on us after all. Nine of us remember it well. Thanks."
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Chamcha could not find any words. "And another thing," Stein went
on. "The old burd, Mrs. Diamond. Turns out to be dead in her bed, cold
as mutton, and the other gentleman vanished clear away. The
possibility of foul play has no as yet been eliminated."
"In conclusion," he said before disappearing forever from Saladin's new
life, "I suggest, Mr. Citizen Saladin, that you dinna trouble with a
complaint. You'll forgive me for speaking plain, but with your wee
horns and your great hoofs you wouldna look the most reliable of
witnesses. Good day to you now."
Saladin Chamcha closed his eyes and when he opened them his
tormentor had turned into the nurse and physiotherapist, Hyacinth
Phillips. "Why you wan go walking?" she asked. "Whatever your heart
desires, you jus ask me, Hyacinth, and we'll see what we can fix."
"Ssst."
That night, in the greeny light of the mysterious institution, Saladin
was awakened by a hiss out of an Indian bazaar.
"Ssst. You, Beelzebub. Wake up."
Standing in front of him was a figure so impossible that Chamcha
wanted to bury his head under the sheets; yet could not, for was not he
himself. . . ? "That's right," the creature said. "You see, you're not
alone."
It had an entirely human body, but its head was that of a ferocious
tiger, with three rows of teeth. "The night guards often doze off," it
explained. "That's how we manage to get to talk."
176
Just then a voice from one of the other beds -- each bed, as Chamcha
now knew, was protected by its own ring of screens -- wailed loudly:
"Oh, if ever a body suffered!" and the man-tiger, or manticore, as it
called itself, gave an exasperated growl. "That Moaner Lisa," it
exclaimed. "All they did to him was make him blind."
"Who did what?" Chamcha was confused.
"The point is," the manticore continued, "are you going to put up with
it?"
Saladin was still puzzled. The other seemed to be suggesting that these
mutations were the responsibility of-- of whom? How could they be? --
"I don't see," he ventured, "who can be blamed . . ."
The manticore ground its three rows of teeth in evident frustration.
"There's a woman over that way," it said, "who is now mostly water-
buffalo. There are businessmen from Nigeria who have grown sturdy
tails. There is a group of holidaymakers from Senegal who were doing
no more than changing planes when they were turned into slippery
snakes. I myself am in the rag trade; for some years now I have been a
highly paid male model, based in Bombay, wearing a wide range of
suitings and shirtings also. But who will employ me now?" he burst
into sudden and unexpected tears. "There, there," said Saladin
Chamcha, automatically. "Everything will be all right, I'm sure of it.
Have courage."
The creature composed itself. "The point is," it said fiercely, "some of
us aren't going to stand for it. We're going to bust out of here before
they turn us into anything worse. Every night I feel a different piece of
me beginning to change. I've started, for example, to break wind
continually ... I beg your pardon you see what I mean? By the way, try
these," he slipped Chamcha a packet of extra-strength peppermints.
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"They'll help your breath. I've bribed one of the guards to bring in a
supply."
"But how do they do it?" Chamcha wanted to know.
"They describe us," the other whispered solemnly. "That's all. They
have the power of description, and we succumb to the pictures they
construct."
"It's hard to believe," Chamcha argued. "I've lived here for many years
and it never happened before ..." His words dried up because he saw the
manticore looking at him through narrow, distrustful eyes. "Many
years?" it asked. "How could that be? -- Maybe you're an informer? --
Yes, that's it, a spy?"
Just then a wail came from a far corner of the ward. "Lemme go," a
woman's voice howled. "OJesus I want to go. Jesus Mary I gotta go,
lemme go, O God, O Jesus God." A very lecherouslooking wolf put its
head through Saladin's screens and spoke urgently to the manticore.
"The guards'll be here soon," it hissed. "It's her again, Glass Bertha."
"Glass . . .?" Saladin began. "Her skin turned to glass," the manticore
explained impatiently, not knowing that he was bringing Chamcha's
worst dream to life. "And the bastards smashed it up for her. Now she
can't even walk to the toilet."
A new voice hissed out across the greeny night. "For God's sake,
woman. Go in the fucking bedpan."
The wolf was pulling the manticore away. "Is he with us or not?" it
wanted to know. The manticore shrugged. "He can't make up his
mind," it answered. "Can't believe his own eyes, that's his trouble."
They fled, hearing the approaching crunch of the guards' heavy boots.
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The next day there was no sign of a doctor, or of Pamela, and Chamcha
in his utter bewilderment woke and slept as if the two conditions no
longer required to be thought of as opposites, but as states that flowed
into and out of one another to create a kind of unending delirium of
the senses.. . he found himself dreaming of the Queen, of making tender
love to the Monarch. She was the body of Britain, the avatar of the
State, and he had chosen her, joined with her; she was his Beloved, the
moon of his delight.
Hyacinth came at the appointed times to ride and pummel him, and he
submitted without any fuss. But when she finished she whispered into
his ear: "You in with the rest?" and he understood that she was involved
in the great conspiracy, too. "If you are," he heard himself saying, "then
you can count me in." She nodded, looking pleased. Chamcha felt a
warmth filling him up, and he began to wonder about taking hold of
one of the physiotherapist's exceedingly dainty, albeit powerful, little
fists; but just then a shout came from the direction of the blind man:
"My stick, I've lost my stick."
"Poor old bugger," said Hyacinth, and hopping off Chamcha she darted
across to the sightless fellow, picked up the fallen stick, restored it to
its owner, and came back to Saladin. "Now," she said. "I'll see you this
pm; okay, no problems?"
He wanted her to stay, but she acted brisk. "I'm a busy woman, Mr.
Chamcha. Things to do, people to see."
When she had gone he lay back and smiled for the first time in a long
while. It did not occur to him that his metamorphosis must be
continuing, because he was actually entertaining romantic notions
about a black woman; and before he had time to think such complex
thoughts, the blind man next door began, once again, to speak.
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"I have noticed you," Chamcha heard him say, "I have noticed you, and
come to appreciate your kindness and understanding." Saladin realized
that he was making a formal speech of thanks to the empty space where
he clearly believed the physiotherapist was still standing. "I am not a
man who forgets a kindness. One day, perhaps, I may be able to repay it,
but for the moment, please know that it is remembered, and fondly,
too. . ." Chamcha did not have the courage to call out, _she isn't there,
old man, she left some time back_. He listened unhappily until at
length the blind man asked the thin air a question: "I hope, perhaps,
you may also remember me? A little? On occasion?" Then came a
silence; a dry laugh; the sound of a man sitting down, heavily, all of a
sudden. And finally, after an unbearable pause, bathos: "Oh," the
soliloquist bellowed, "oh, if ever a body suffered. . . !"
We strive for the heights but our natures betray us, Chamcha thought;
clowns in search of crowns. The bitterness overcame him. _Once I was
lighter, happier, warm. Now the black water is in my veins_.
Still no Pamela. _What the hell_. That night, he told the manticore and
the wolf that he was with them, all the way.
The great escape took place some nights later, when Saladin's lungs had
been all but emptied of slime by the ministrations of Miss Hyacinth
Phillips. It turned out to be a well-organized affair on a pretty large
scale, involving not only the inmates of the sanatorium but also the
detenus, as the manticore called them, held behind wire fences in the
Detention Centre nearby. Not being one of the grand strategists of the
escape, Chamcha simply waited by his bed as instructed until Hyacinth
brought him word, and then they ran out of that ward of nightmares
into the clarity of a cold, moonlit sky, past several bound, gagged men:
their former guards. There were many shadowy figures running through
the glowing night, and Chamcha glimpsed beings he could never have
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imagined, men and women who were also partially plants, or giant
insects, or even, on occasion, built partly of brick or stone; there were
men with rhinoceros horns instead of noses and women with necks as
long as any giraffe. The monsters ran quickly, silently, to the edge of
the Detention Centre compound, where the manticore and other sharp-
toothed mutants were waiting by the large holes they had bitten into
the fabric of the containing fence, and then they were out, free, going
their separate ways, without hope, but also without shame. Saladin
Chamcha and Hyacinth Phillips ran side by side, his goat-hoofs clip-
clopping on the hard pavements: _east_ she told him, as he heard his
own footsteps replace the tinnitus in his ears, east east east they ran,
taking the low roads to London town.
4
Jumpy Joshi had become Pamela Chamcha's lover by what she
afterwards called "sheer chance" on the night she learned of her
husband's death in the _Bostan_ explosion, so that the sound of his old
college friend Saladin's voice speaking from beyond the grave in the
middle of the night, uttering the five gnomic words _sorry, excuse
please, wrong number_, -- speaking, moreover, less than two hours after
Jumpy and Pamela had made, with the assistance of two bottles of
whisky, the two-- backed beast, -- put him in a tight spot. "Who was
_that?_" Pamela, still mostly asleep, with a blackout mask over her eyes,
rolled over to inquire, and he decided to reply, "Just a breather, don't
worry about it," which was all very well, except then he had to do the
worrying all by himself, sitting up in bed, naked, and sucking, for
comfort, as he had all his life, the thumb on his right hand.
He was a small person with wire coathanger shoulders and an enormous
capacity for nervous agitation, evidenced by his pale, sunken--eyed face;
his thinning hair -- still entirely black and curly -- which had been
181
ruffled so often by his frenzied hands that it no longer took the
slightest notice of brushes or combs, but stuck out every which way and
gave its owner the perpetual air of having just woken up, late, and in a
hurry; and his endearingly high, shy and self-deprecating, but also
hiccoughy and over--excited, giggle; all of which had helped turn his
name, Jamshed, into this Jumpy that everybody, even first-time
acquaintances, now automatically used; everybody, that is, except
Pamela Chamcha. Saladin's wife, he thought, sucking away feverishly. --
Or widow? -- Or, God help me, wife, after all. He found himself
resenting Chamcha. A return from a watery grave: so operatic an event,
in this day and age, seemed almost indecent, an act of bad faith.
He had rushed over to Pamela's place the moment he heard the news,
and found her dry-eyed and composed. She led him into her clutter-
lover's study on whose walls watercolours of rose-gardens hung between
clenched--fist posters reading _Partido Socialista_, photographs of
friends and a cluster of African masks, and as he picked his way across
the floor between ashtrays and the _Voice_ newspaper and feminist
science--fiction novels she said, flatly, "The surprising thing is that
when they told me I thought, well, shrug, his death will actually make a
pretty small hole in my life." Jumpy, who was close to tears, and
bursting with memories, stopped in his tracks and flapped his arms,
looking, in his great shapeless black coat, and with his pallid, terror-
stricken face, like a vampire caught in the unexpected and hideous light
of day. Then he saw the empty whisky bottles. Pamela had started
drinking, she said, some hours back, and since then she had been going
at it steadily, rhythmically, with the dedication of a long-distance
runner. He sat down beside her on her low, squashy sofa-bed, and
offered to act as a pacemaker. "Whatever you want," she said, and
passed him the bottle.
Now, sitting up in bed with a thumb instead of a bottle, his secret and
his hangover banging equally painfully inside his head (he had never
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been a drinking or a secretive man), Jumpy felt tears coming on once
again, and decided to get up and walk himself around. Where he went
was upstairs, to what Saladin had insisted on calling his "den", a large
loft--space with skylights and windows looking down on an expanse of
communal gardens dotted with comfortable trees, oak, larch, even the
last of the elms, a survivor of the plague years. _First the elms, now us_,
Jumpy reflected. _Maybe the trees were a warning_. He shook himself to
banish such small-hour morbidities, and perched on the edge of his
friend's mahogany desk. Once at a college party he had perched, just so,
on a table soggy with spilled wine and beer next to an emaciated girl in
black lace minidress, purple feather boa and eyelids like silver helmets,
unable to pluck up the courage to say hello. Finally he did turn to her
and stutter out some banality or other; she gave him a look of absolute
contempt and said without moving her black--lacquer lips,
conversation's dead, man_. He had been pretty upset, so upset that he
blurted out, _tell me, why are all the girls in this town so rude?_, and
she answered, without pausing to think, _because most of the boys are
like you_. A few moments later Chamcha came up, reeking of patchouli,
wearing a white kurta, everybody's goddamn cartoon of the mysteries of
the East, and the girl left with him five minutes later. The bastard,
Jumpy Joshi thought as the old bitterness surged back, he had no
shame, he was ready to be anything they wanted to buy, that read-your-
palm bedspread-jacket HareKrishna dharma-bum, you wouldn't have
caught me dead. That stopped him, that word right there. Dead. Face it,
Jamshed, the girls never went for you, that's the truth, and the rest is
envy. Well, maybe so, he half-conceded, and then again. Maybe dead, he
added, and then again, maybe not.
Chamcha's room struck the sleepless intruder as contrived, and
therefore sad: the caricature of an actor's room full of signed
photographs of colleagues, handbills, framed programmes, production
stills, citations, awards, volumes of movie--star memoirs, a room
bought off the peg, by the yard, an imitation of life, a mask's mask.
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Novelty items on every surface: ashtrays in the shape of pianos, china
pierrots peeping out from behind a shelf of books. And everywhere, on
the walls, in the movie posters, in the glow of the lamp borne by bronze
Eros, in the mirror shaped like a heart, oozing up through the blood-
red carpet, dripping from the ceiling, Saladin's need for love. In the
theatre everybody gets kissed and everybody is darling. The actor's life
offers, on a daily basis, the simulacrum of love; a mask can be satisfied,
or at least consoled, by the echo of what it seeks. The desperation there
was in him, Jumpy recognized, he'd do anything, put on any damnfool
costume, change into any shape, if it earned him a loving word. Saladin,
who wasn't by any means unsuccessful with women, see above. The poor
stumblebum. Even Pamela, with all her beauty and brightness, hadn't
been enough.
It was clear he'd been getting to be a long way from enough for her.
Somewhere around the bottom of the second whisky bottle she leaned
her head on his shoulder and said boozily, "You can't imagine the relief
of being with someone with whom I don't have to have a fight every
time I express an opinion. Someone on the side of the goddamn
angels." He waited; after a pause, there was more. "Him and his Royal
Family, you wouldn't believe. Cricket, the Houses of Parliament, the
Queen. The place never stopped being a picture postcard to him. You
couldn't get him to look at what was really real." She closed her eyes
and allowed her hand, by accident, to rest on his. "He was a real
Saladin," Jumpy said. "A man with a holy land to conquer, his England,
the one he believed in. You were part of it, too." She rolled away from
him and stretched out on top of magazines, crumpled balls of waste
paper, mess. "Part of it? I was bloody Britannia. Warm beer, mince pies,
common-sense and me. But I'm really real, too, J.J.; I really really am."
She reached over to him, pulled him across to where her mouth was
waiting, kissed him with a great un-Pamela-like slurp. "See what I
mean?" Yes, he saw.
184
"You should have heard him on the Falklands war," she said later,
disengaging herself and fiddling with her hair. "'Pamela, suppose you
heard a noise downstairs in the middle of the night and went to
investigate and found a huge man in the livingroom with a shotgun,
and he said, Go back upstairs, what would you do?' I'd go upstairs, I
said. 'Well, it's like that. Intruders in the home. It won't do.' Jumpy
noticed her fists had clenched and her knuckles were bone-white. "I
said, if you must use these blasted cosy metaphors, then get them right.
What it's _like_ is if two people claim they own a house, and one of
them is squatting the place, and _then_ the other turns up with the
shotgun. That's what it's _like_." "That's what's really real," Jumpy
nodded, seriously. "_Right_," she slapped his knee. "That's really right,
Mr. Real Jam . . . it's really truly like that. Actually. Another drink."
She leaned over to the tape deck and pushed a button. Jesus, Jumpy
thought, _Boney M?_ Give me a break. For all her tough, race--
professional attitudes, the lady still had a lot to learn about music.
Here it came, boomchickaboom. Then, without warning, he was crying,
provoked into real tears by counterfeit emotion, by a disco-beat
imitation of pain. It was the one hundred and thirty-seventh psalm,
"Super flumina". King David calling out across the centuries. How shall
we sing the Lord's song in a strange land.
"I had to learn the psalms at school," Pamela Chamcha said, sitting on
the floor, her head leaning against the sofa-bed, her eyes shut tight. _By
the river of Babylon, where we sat down, oh oh we wept_ . . . she
stopped the tape, leaned back again, began to recite. "If I forget thee, O
Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its cunning; if I do not remember
thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; yea, if I prefer not
Jerusalem in my mirth."
Later, asleep in bed, she dreamed of her convent school, of matins and
evensong, of the chanting of psalms, when Jumpy rushed in and shook
185
her awake, shouting, "It's no good, I've got to tell you. He isn't dead.
Saladin: he's bloody well alive."
She came wide awake at once, plunging her hands into her thick, curly,
hennaed hair, in which the first strands of white were just beginning to
be noticeable; she knelt on the bed, naked, with her hands in her hair,
unable to move, until Jumpy had finished speaking, and then, without
warning, she began to hit out at him, punching him on the chest and
arms and shoulders and even his face, as hard as she could hit. He sat
down on the bed beside her, looking ridiculous in her frilly dressing-
gown, while she beat him; he allowed his body to go loose, to receive the
blows, to submit. When she ran out of punches her body was covered in
perspiration and he thought she might have broken one of his arms.
She sat down beside him, panting, and they were silent.
Her dog entered the bedroom, looking worried, and padded over to
offer her his paw, and to lick at her left leg. Jumpy stirred, cautiously.
"I thought he got stolen," he said eventually. Pamela jerked her head
for _yes, but_. "The thieves got in touch. I paid the ransom. He now
answers to the name of Glenn. That's okay; I could never pronounce
Sher Khan properly, anyway."
After a while, Jumpy found that he wanted to talk. "What you did, just
now," he began.
"Oh, God."
"No. It's like a thing I once did. Maybe the most sensible thing I ever
did." In the summer of 1967, he had bullied the "apolitical" twenty-
year-old Saladin along on an anti-war demonstration. "Once in your
life, Mister Snoot; I'm going to drag you down to my level." Harold
Wilson was coming to town, and because of the Labour Government's
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support of U S involvement in Vietnam, a mass protest had been
planned. Chamcha went along, "out of curiosity," he said. "I want to
see how allegedly intelligent people turn themselves into a mob."
That day it rained an ocean. The demonstrators in Market Square were
soaked through. Jumpy and Chamcha, swept along by the crowd, found
themselves pushed up against the steps of the town hail; _grandstand
view_, Chamcha said with heavy irony. Next to them stood two students
disguised as Russian assassins, in black fedoras, greatcoats and dark
glasses, carrying shoeboxes filled with ink-dipped tomatoes and labelled
in large block letters, bombs. Shortly before the Prime Minister's
arrival, one of them tapped a policeman on the shoulder and said:
"Excuse, please. When Mr. Wilson, self--styled Prime Meenster, comes in
long car, kindly request to wind down weendow so my friend can throw
with him the bombs." The policeman answered, "Ho, ho, sir. Very good.
Now I'll tell you what. You can throw eggs at him, sir, "cause that's all
right with me. And you can throw tomatoes at him, sir, like what you've
got there in that box, painted black, labelled bombs, "cause that's all
right with me. You throw anything hard at him, sir, and my mate here'll
get you with his gun." O days of innocence when the world was young .
. . when the car arrived there was a surge in the crowd and Chamcha and
Jumpy were separated. Then Jumpy appeared, climbed on to the bonnet
of Harold Wilson's limousine, and began to jump up and down on the
bonnet, creating large dents, leaping like a wild man to the rhythm of
the crowd's chanting: _We shall fight, we shall win, long live Ho Chi
Minh_.
"Saladin started yelling at me to get off, partly because the crowd was
full of Special Branch types converging on the limo, but mainly because
he was so damn embarrassed." But he kept leaping, up higher and down
harder, drenched to the bone, long hair flying: Jumpy the jumper,
leaping into the mythology of those antique years. And Wilson and
Marcia cowered in the back seat. Ho! Ho! Ho Chi Minh! At the last
187
possible moment Jumpy took a deep breath, and dived head-first into a
sea of wet and friendly faces; and vanished. They never caught him: fuzz
pigs filth. "Saladin wouldn't speak to me for over a week," Jumpy
remembered. "And when he did, all he said was, 'I hope you realize
those cops could have shot you to pieces, but they didn't.'
They were still sitting side by side on the edge of the bed. Jumpy
touched Pamela on the forearm. "I just mean I know how it feels.
Wham, barn. It felt incredible. It felt necessary."
"Oh, my God," she said, turning to him. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry, but
yes, it did."
In the morning it took an hour to get through to the airline on account
of the volume of calls still being generated by the catastrophe, and then
another twenty-five minutes of insistence -- _but he telephoned, it was
his voice_ -- while at the other end of the phone a woman's voice,
professionally trained to deal with human beings in crisis, understood
how she felt and sympathized with her in this awful moment and
remained very patient, but clearly didn't believe a word she said. .I'm
sorry, madam, I don't mean to be brutal, but the plane broke up in mid-
air at thirty thousand feet_. By the end of the call Pamela Chamcha,
normally the most controlled of women, who locked herself in a
bathroom when she wanted to cry, was shrieking down the line, for
God's sake, woman, will you shut up with your little good-samaritan
speeches and listen to what I'm saying? Finally she slammed down the
receiver and rounded on Jumpy Joshi, who saw the expression in her
eyes and spilled the coffee he had been bringing her because his limbs
began to tremble in fright. "You fucking creep," she cursed him. "Still
alive, is he? I suppose he flew down from the sky on fucking _wings_
and headed straight for the nearest phone booth to change out of his
fucking Superman costume and ring the little wife." They were in the
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kitchen and Jumpy noticed a group of kitchen knives attached to a
magnetic strip on the wall next to Pamela's left arm. He opened his
mouth to speak, but she wouldn't let him. "Get out before I do
something," she said. "I can't believe I fell for it. You and voices on the
phone: I should have fucking known."
In the early 1970S Jumpy had run a travelling disco out of the back of
his yellow mini-van. He called it Finn's Thumb in honour of the
legendary sleeping giant of Ireland, Finn MacCool, another sucker, as
Chamcha used to say. One day Saladin had played a practical joke on
Jumpy, by ringing him up, putting on a vaguely Mediterranean accent,
and requesting the services of the musical Thumb on the island of
Skorpios, on behalf of Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, offering a fee
of ten thousand dollars and transportation to Greece, in a private
aircraft, for up to six persons. This was a terrible thing to do to a man
as innocent and upright as Jamshed Joshi. "I need an hour to think," he
had said, and then fallen into an agony of the soul. When Saladin rang
back an hour later and heard that Jumpy was turning down Mrs.
Onassis's offer for political reasons, he understood that his friend was
in training to be a saint, and it was no good trying to pull his leg. "Mrs.
Onassis will be broken in the heart for sure," he had concluded, and
Jumpy had worriedly replied, "Please tell her it's nothing personal, as a
matter of fact personally I admire her a great deal."
We have all known one another too long, Pamela thought as Jumpy left.
We can hurt each other with memories two decades old.
On the subject of mistakes with voices, she thought as she drove much
too fast down the M4 that afternoon in the old MG hardtop from which
she got a degree of pleasure that was, as she had always cheerfully
confessed, "quite ideologically unsound", -- on that subject, I really
ought to be more charitable.
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Pamela Chamcha, nee Lovelace, was the possessor of a voice for which,
in many ways, the rest of her life had been an effort to compensate. It
was a voice composed of tweeds, headscarves, summer pudding, hockey-
sticks, thatched houses, saddle-soap, house--parties, nuns, family pews,
large dogs and philistinism, and in spite of all her attempts to reduce
its volume it was loud as a dinner-jacketed drunk throwing bread rolls
in a Club. It had been the tragedy of her younger days that thanks to
this voice she had been endlessly pursued by the gentlemen farmers and
debs' delights and somethings in the city whom she despised with all
her heart, while the greenies and peacemarchers and world--changers
with whom she instinctively felt at home treated her with deep
suspicion, bordering on resentment. How could one be _on the side of
the angels_ when one sounded like a no-goodnik every time one moved
one's lips? Accelerating past Reading, Pamela gritted her teeth. One of
the reasons she had decided to _admit it_ end her marriage before fate
did it for her was that she had woken up one day and realized that
Chamcha was not in love with her at all, but with that voice stinking of
Yorkshire pudding and hearts of oak, that hearty, rubicund voice of ye
olde dream-England which he so desperately wanted to inhabit. It had
been a marriage of crossed purposes, each of them rushing towards the
very thing from which the other was in flight.
_No survivors_. And in the middle of the night, Jumpy the idiot and his
stupid false alarm. She was so shaken up by it that she hadn't even got
round to being shaken up by having gone to bed with Jumpy and made
love in what _admit it_ had been a pretty satisfying fashion, _spare me
your nonchalance_, she rebuked herself, _when did you last have so
much fun_. She had a lot to deal with and so here she was, dealing with
it by running away as fast as she could go. A few days of pampering
oneself in an expensive country hotel and the world may begin to seem
less like a fucking hellhole. Therapy by luxury: okayokay, she allowed, I
know: I'm _reverting to class_. Fuck it; watch me go. If you've got any
objections, blow them out of your ass. Arse. Ass.
190
One hundred miles an hour past Swindon, and the weather turned
nasty. Sudden, dark clouds, lightning, heavy rain; she kept her foot on
the accelerator. _No survivors_. People were always dying on her,
leaving her with a mouth full of words and nobody to spit them at. Her
father the classical scholar who could make puns in ancient Greek and
from whom she inherited the Voice, her legacy and curse; and her
mother who pined for him during the War, when he was a Pathfinder
pilot, obliged to fly home from Germany one hundred and eleven times
in a slow aeroplane through a night which his own flares had just
illuminated for the benefit of the bombers, -- and who vowed, when he
returned with the noise of the ack-ack in his ears, that she would never
leave him, -- and so followed him everywhere, into the slow hollow of
depression from which he never really emerged, -- and into debt,
because he didn't have the face for poker and used her money when he
ran out of his own, -- and at last to the top of a tall building, where
they found their way at last. Pamela never forgave them, especially for
making it impossible for her to tell them of her unforgiveness. To get
her own back, she set about rejecting everything of them that remained
within her. Her brains, for example: she refused to go to college. And
because she could not shake off her voice, she made it speak ideas
which her conservative suicides of parents would have anathematized.
She married an Indian. And, because he turned out to be too much like
them, would have left him. Had decided to leave. When, once again, she
was cheated by a death.
She was overtaking a frozen-food road train, blinded by the spray
kicked up by its wheels, when she hit the expanse of water that had
been waiting for her in a slight declivity, and then the M G was
aquaplaning at terrifying speed, swerving out of the fast lane and
spinning round so that she saw the headlights of the road train staring
at her like the eyes of the exterminating angel, Azrael. "Curtains," she
thought; but her car swung and skidded out of the path of the
juggernaut, slewing right across all three lanes of the motorway, all of
191
them miraculously empty, and coming to rest with rather less of a
thump than one might have expected against the crash barrier at the
edge of the hard shoulder, after spinning through a further one
hundred and eighty degrees to face, once again, into the west, where
with all the corny timing of real life, the sun was breaking up the storm.
The fact of being alive compensated for what life did to one. That
night, in an oak-panelled dining-room decorated with medieval flags,
Pamela Chamcha in her most dazzling gown ate venison and drank a
bottle of Chateau Talbot at a table heavy with silver and crystal,
celebrating a new beginning, an escape from the jaws of, a fresh start, to
be born again first you have to: well, almost, anyway. Under the
lascivious eyes of Americans and salesmen she ate and drank alone,
retiring early to a princess's bedroom in a stone tower to take a long
bath and watch old movies on television. In the aftermath of her brush
with death she felt the past dropping away from her: her adolescence,
for example, in the care of her wicked uncle Harry Higham, who lived in
a seventeenth-century manor house once owned by a distant relative,
Matthew Hopkins, the Witchfinder-General, who had named it
Gremlins in, no doubt, a macabre attempt at humour. Remembering
Mr. Justice Higham in order to forget him, she murmured to the absent
Jumpy that she, too, had her Vietnam story. After the first big
Grosvenor Square demonstration at which many people threw marbles
under the feet of charging police horses, there occurred the one and
only instance in British law in which the marble was deemed to be a
lethal weapon, and young persons were jailed, even deported, for
possessing the small glass spheres. The presiding judge in the case of
the Grosvenor Marbles was this same Henry (thereafter known as
"Hang"em") Higham, and to be his niece had been a further burden for
a young woman already weighed down by her right-wing voice. Now,
warm in bed in her temporary castle, Pamela Chamcha rid herself of
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this old demon, _goodbye, Hang"eni, I've no more time for you_; and of
her parents' ghosts; and prepared to be free of the most recent ghost of
all.
Sipping cognac, Pamela watched vampires on TV and allowed herself to
take pleasure in, well, in herself. Had she not invented herself in her
own image? I am that I am, she toasted herself in Napoleon brandy. I
work in a community relations council in the borough of Brickhall,
London, NET; deputy community relations officer and damn good at it,
ifisaysomyself. Cheers! We just elected our first black Chair and all the
votes cast against him were white. Down the hatch! Last week a
respected Asian street trader, for whom M Ps of all parties had
interceded, was deported after eighteen years in Britain because, fifteen
years ago, he posted a certain form forty-eight hours late. Chin-chin!
Next week in Brickhall Magistrates' Court the police will be trying to
fit up a fifty-year-old Nigerian woman, accusing her of assault, having
previously beaten her senseless. Skol! This is my head: see it? What I
call my job: bashing my head against Brickhall.
Saladin was dead and she was alive.
She drank to that. There were things I was waiting to tell you, Saladin.
Some big things: about the new high-rise office building in Brickhall
High Street, across from McDonald"s; -- they built it to be perfectly
sound-proof, but the workers were so disturbed by the silence that now
they play tapes of white noise on the tannoy system. -- You'd have liked
that, eh? -- And about this Parsi woman I know, Bapsy, that's her name,
she lived in Germany for a while and fell in love with a Turk. -- Trouble
was, the only language they had in common was German; now Bapsy has
forgotten almost all she knew, while his gets better and better; he writes
her increasingly poetic letters and she can hardly reply in nursery
rhyme. -- Love dying, because of an inequality of language, what do you
think of that? -- Love dying. There's a subject for us, eb? Saladin? What
do you say?
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And a couple of tiny little things. There's a killer on the loose in my
patch, specializes in killing old women; so don't worry, I'm safe. Plenty
older than me.
One more thing: I'm leaving you. It's over. We're through.
I could never say anything to you, not really, not the least thing. If I
said you were putting on weight you'd yell for an hour, as if it would
change what you saw in the mirror, what the tightness of your own
trousers was telling you. You interrupted me in public. People noticed
it, what you thought of me. I forgave you, that was my fault; I could see
the centre of you, that question so frightful that you had to protect it
with all that posturing certainty. That empty space.
Goodbye, Saladin. She drained her glass and set it down beside her. The
returning rain knocked at her leaded windows; she drew her curtains
shut and turned out the light.
Lying there, drifting towards sleep, she thought of the last thing she
needed to tell her late husband. "In bed," the words came, "you never
seemed interested in me; not in my pleasure, what I needed, not really
ever. I came to think you wanted, not a lover. A servant." There. Now
rest in peace.
She dreamed of him, his face, filling the dream. "Things are ending," he
told her. "This civilization; things are closing in on it. It has been quite
a culture, brilliant and foul, cannibal and Christian, the glory of the
world. We should celebrate it while we can; until night falls."
She didn't agree, not even in the dream, but she knew, as she dreamed,
that there was no point telling him now.
194
After Pamela Chamcha threw him out, Jumpy Joshi went over to Mr.
Sufyan's Shaandaar Cafe in Brickhall High Street and sat there trying
to decide if he was a fool. It was early in the day, so the place was
almost empty, apart from a fat lady buying a box of pista barfi and
jalebis, a couple of bachelor garment workers drinking chaloo chai and
an elderly Polish woman from the old days when it was the Jews who
ran the sweatshops round here, who sat all day in a corner with two
vegetable samosas, one pun and a glass of milk, announcing to everyone
who came in that she was only there because "it was next best to kosher
and today you must do the best you can". Jumpy sat down with his
coffee beneath the lurid painting of a bare-breasted myth-woman with
several heads and wisps of clouds obscuring her nipples, done life-size
in salmon pink, neon-green and gold, and because the rush hadn't
started yet Mr. Sufyan noticed he was down in the dumps.
"Hey, Saint Jumpy," he sang out, "why you bringing your bad weather
into my place? This country isn't full enough of clouds?"
Jumpy blushed as Sufyan bounced over to him, his little white cap of
devotion pinned in place as usual, the moustache-less beard hennaed
red after its owner's recent pilgrimage to Mecca. Muhammad Sufyan
was a burly, thick-forearmed fellow with a belly on him, as godly and as
unfanatic a believer as you could meet, and Joshi thought of himas a
sort of elder relative. "Listen, Uncle," he said when the cafe proprietor
was standing over him, "you think I'm a real idiot or what?"
"You ever make any money?" Sufyan asked.
"Not me, Uncle."
"Ever do any business? Import-export? Off-licence? Corner shop?"
"I never understood figures."
"And where your family members are?"
195
"I've got no family, Uncle. There's only me."
"Then you must be praying to God continually for guidance in your
loneliness?"
"You know me, Uncle. I don't pray."
"No question about it," Sufyan concluded. "You're an even bigger fool
than you know."
"Thanks, Uncle," Jumpy said, finishing his coffee. "You've been a great
help."
Sufyan, knowing that the affection in his teasing was cheering the other
man up in spite of his long face, called across to the light-skinned,
blue-eyed Asian man who had just come in wearing a snappy check
overcoat with extra-wide lapels. "You, Hanif Johnson," he called out,
"come here and solve a mystery. "Johnson, a smart lawyer and local boy
made good, who maintained an office above the Shaandaar Cafe, tore
himself away from Sufyan's two beautiful daughters and headed over to
Jumpy's table. "You explain this fellow," Sufyan said. "Beats me.
Doesn't drink, thinks of money like a disease, owns maybe two shirts
and no V C R, forty years old and isn't married, works for two pice in
the sports centre teaching martial arts and what--all, lives on air,
behaves like a rishi or pir but doesn't have any faith, going nowhere but
looks like he knows some secret. All this and a college education, you
work it out."
Hanif Johnson punched Jumpy on the shoulder. "He hears voices," he
said. Sufyan threw up his hands in mock amazement. "Voices, oop-
baba! Voices from where? Telephone? Sky? Sony Walkman hidden in his
coat?"
196
"Inner voices," Hanif said solemnly. "Upstairs on his desk there's a
piece of paper with some verses written on it. And a title: _The River of
Blood_."
Jumpy jumped, knocking over his empty cup. "I'll kill you," he shouted
at Hanif, who skipped quickly across the room, singing out, "We got a
poet in our midst, Sufyan Sahib. Treat with respect. Handle with care.
He says a street is a river and we are the flow; humanity is a river of
blood, that's the poet's point. Also the individual human being," he
broke off to run around to the far side of an eight--seater table as
Jumpy came after him, blushing furiously, flapping his arms. "In our
very bodies, does the river of blood not flow?" _Like the Roman_, the
ferrety Enoch Powell had said, _I seem to see the river Tiber foaming
with much blood_. Reclaim the metaphor, Jumpy Joshi had told
himself. Turn it; make it a thing we can use. "This is like rape," he
pleaded with Hanif. "For God's sake, stop."
"Voices that one hears are outside, but," the cafe proprietor was
musing. "Joan of Arc, na. Or that what's his name with the cat: Turn-
again Whittington. But with such voices one becomes great, or rich at
least. This one however is not great, and poor."
"Enough." Jumpy held both arms above his head, grinning without
really wanting to. "I surrender."
For three days after that, in spite of all the efforts of Mr. Sufyan, Mrs.
Sufyan, their daughters Mishal and Anahita, and the lawyer Hanif
Johnson, Jumpy Joshi was not really himself, "More a Dumpy than a
Jumpy," as Sufyan said. He went about his business, at the youth clubs,
at the offices of the film co-operative to which he belonged, and in the
streets, distributing leaflets, selling certain newspapers, hanging out;
but his step was heavy as he went his way. Then, on the fourth evening,
the telephone rang behind the counter of the Shaandaar Cafe.
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"Mr. Jamshed Joshi," Anahita Sufyan carolled, doing her imitation of
an upper—class English accent. "Will Mr. Joshi please come to the
instrument? There is a personal call."
Her father took one look at the joy bursting out on Jumpy's face and
murmured softly to his wife, "Mrs, the voice this boy is wanting to hear
is not inner by any manner of means."
The impossible thing came between Pamela and Jamshed after they had
spent seven days making love to one another with inexhaustible
enthusiasm, infinite tenderness and such freshness of spirit that you'd
have thought the procedure had only just been invented. For seven days
they remained undressed with the central heating turned high, and
pretended to be tropical lovers in some hot bright country to the south.
Jamshed, who had always been clumsy with women, told Pamela that he
had not felt so wonderful since the day in his eighteenth year when he
had finally learned how to ride a bicycle. The moment the words were
out he became afraid that he had spoiled everything, that this
comparison of the great love of his life to the rickety bike of his student
days would be taken for the insult it undeniably was; but he needn't
have worried, because Pamela kissed him on the mouth and thanked
him for saying the most beautiful thing any man had ever said to any
woman. At this point he understood that he could do no wrong, and for
the first time in his life he began to. feel genuinely safe, safe as houses,
safe as a human being who is loved; and so did Pamela Chamcha.
On the seventh night they were awakened from dreamless sleep by the
unmistakable sound of somebody trying to break into the house. "I've
got a hockey-stick under my bed," Pamela whispered, terrified. "Give it
to me," Jumpy, who was equally scared, hissed back. "I'm coming with
you," quaked Pamela, and Jumpy quavered, "Oh, no you don't." In the
end they both crept downstairs, each wearing one of Pamela's frilly
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dressing-gowns, each with a hand on the hockey-stick that neither felt
brave enough to use. Suppose it's a man with a shotgun, Pamela found
herself thinking, a man with a shotgun saying, Go back upstairs . . .
They reached the foot of the stairs. Somebody turned on the lights.
Pamela and Jumpy screamed in unison, dropped the hockeystick and
ran upstairs as fast as they could go; while down in the front hail,
standing brightly illuminated by the front door with the glass panel it
had smashed in order to turn the knob of the tongue-and-groove lock
(Pamela in the throes of her passion had forgotten to use the security
locks), was a figure out of a nightmare or a late-night TV movie, a
figure covered in mud and ice and blood, the hairiest creature you ever
saw, with the shanks and hoofs of a giant goat, a man's torso covered in
goat's hair, human arms, and a horned but otherwise human head
covered in muck and grime and the beginnings of a beard. Alone and
unobserved, the impossible thing pitched forward on to the floor and
lay still.
Upstairs, at the very top of the house, that is to say in Saladin's "den",
Mrs. Pamela Chamcha was writhing in her lover's arms, crying her heart
out, and bawling at the top of her voice: "It isn't true. My husband
exploded. No survivors. Do you hear me? I am the widow Chamcha
whose spouse is beastly dead."
Mr. Gibreel Farishta on the railway train to London was once again
seized as who would not be by the fear that God had decided to punish
him for his loss of faith by driving him insane. He had seated himself by
the window in a first-class non-smoking compartment, with his back to
the engine because unfortunately another fellow was already in the
other place, and jamming his trilby down on his head he sat with his
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fists deep in scarlet--lined gabardine and panicked. The terror of losing
his mind to a paradox, of being unmade by what he no longer believed
existed, of turning in his madness into the avatar of a chimerical
archangel, was so big in him that it was impossible to look at it for
long; yet how else was he to account for the miracles, metamorphoses
and apparitions of recent days? "It's a straight choice," he trembled
silently. "It's A, I'm off my head, or B, baba, somebody went and
changed the rules."
Now, however, there was the comforting cocoon of this railway
compartment in which the miraculous was reassuringly absent, the arm-
rests were frayed, the reading light over his shoulder didn't work, the
mirror was missing from its frame, and then there were the regulations:
the little circular red--and-- white signs forbidding smoking, the
stickers penalizing the improper use of the chain, the arrows indicating
the points to which -- and not beyond! -- it was permitted to open the
little sliding windows. Gibreel paid a visit to the toilet and here, too, a
small series of prohibitions and instructions gladdened his heart. By
the time the conductor arrived with the authority of his crescent-
cutting ticket-punch, Gibreel had been somewhat soothed by these
manifestations of law, and began to perk up and invent
rationalizations. He had had a lucky escape from death, a subsequent
delirium of some sort, and now, restored to himself, could expect the
threads of his old life -- that is, his old new life, the new life he had
planned before the er interruption -- to be picked up again. As the train
carried him further and further away from the twilight zone of his
arrival and subsequent mysterious captivity, bearing him along the
happy predictability of parallel metal lines, he felt the pull of the great
city beginning to work its magic on him, and his old gift of hope
reasserted itself, his talent for embracing renewal, for blinding himself
to past hardships so that the future could come into view. He sprang up
from his seat and thumped down on the opposite side of the
compartment, with his face symbolically towards London, even though
200
it meant giving up the window. What did he care for windows? All the
London he wanted was right there, in his mind's eye. He spoke her
name aloud: "Alleluia."
"Alleluia, brother," the compartment's only other occupant affirmed.
"Hosanna, my good sir, and amen."
"Although I must add, sir, that my beliefs are strictly non-
denominational," the stranger continued. "Had you said 'La--ilaha', I
would gladly have responded with a full-throated 'illallah'."
Gibreel realized that his move across the compartment and his
inadvertent taking of Allie's unusual name had been mistaken by his
companion for overtures both social and theological. "John Maslama,"
the fellow cried, snapping a card out of a little crocodile-skin case and
pressing it upon Gibreel. "Personally, I follow my own variant of the
universal faith invented by the Emperor Akbar. God, I would say, is
something akin to the Music of the Spheres."
It was plain that Mr. Maslama was bursting with words, and that, now
that he had popped, there was nothing for it but to sit it out, to permit
the torrent to run its orotund course. As the fellow had the build of a
prize-fighter, it seemed inadvisable to irritate him. In his eyes Farishta
spotted the glint of the True Believer, a light which, until recently, he
had seen in his own shaving-mirror every day.
"I have done well for myself, sir," Maslama was boasting in his well-
modulated Oxford drawl. "For a brown man, exceptionally well,
considering the quiddity of the circumstances in which we live; as I
hope you will allow." With a small but eloquent sweep of his thick ham
of a hand, he indicated the opulence of his attire: the bespoke tailoring
of his three-piece pin-stripe, the gold watch with its fob and chain, the
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Italian shoes, the crested silk tie, the jewelled links at his starched
white cuffs. Above this costume of an English milord there stood a head
of startling size, covered with thick, slicked-down hair, and sprouting
implausibly luxuriant eyebrows beneath which blazed the ferocious eyes
of which Gibreel had already taken careful note. "Pretty fancy," Gibreel
now conceded, some response being clearly required. Maslama nodded.
"I have always tended," he admitted, "towards the ornate."
He had made what he called his _first pile_ producing advertising
jingles, "that ol" devil music", leading women into lingerie and lip-
gloss and men into temptation. Now he owned record stores all over
town, a successful nightclub called Hot Wax, and a store full of
gleaming musical instruments that was his special pride and joy. He was
an Indian from Guyana, "but there's nothing left in that place, sir.
People are leaving it faster than planes can fly." He had made good in
quick time, "by the grace of God Almighty. I'm a regular Sunday man,
sir; I confess to a weakness for the English Hymnal, and I sing to raise
the roof."
The autobiography was concluded with a brief mention of the existence
of a wife and some dozen children. Gibreel offered his congratulations
and hoped for silence, but now Maslama dropped his bombshell. "You
don't need to tell me about yourself," he said jovially. "Naturally I
know who you are, even if one does not expect to see such a personage
on the Eastbourne-Victoria line." He winked leeringly and placed a
finger alongside his nose. "Mum's the word. I respect a man's privacy,
no question about it; no question at all."
"I? Who am I?" Gibreel was startled into absurdity. The other nodded
weightily, his eyebrows waving like soft antlers. "The prize question, in
my opinion. These are problematic times, sir, for a moral man. When a
man is unsure of his essence, how may he know if he be good or bad?
But you are finding me tedious. I answer my own questions by my faith
in It, sir," -- here Maslama pointed to the ceiling of the railway
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compartment -- "and of course you are not in the least confused about
your identity, for you are the famous, the may I say legendary Mr.
Gibreel Farishta, star of screen and, increasingly, I'm sorry to add, of
pirate video; my twelve children, one wife and I are all long-standing,
unreserved admirers of your divine heroics." He grabbed, and pumped
Gibreel's right hand.
"Tending as I do towards the pantheistic view," Maslama thundered on,
"my own sympathy for your work arises out of your willingness to
portray deities of every conceivable water. You, sir, are a rainbow
coalition of the celestial; a walking United Nations of gods! You are, in
short, the future. Permit me to salute you." He was beginning to give
off the unmistakable odour of the genuine crazy, and even though he
had not yet said or done anything beyond the merely idiosyncratic,
Gibreel was getting alarmed and measuring the distance to the door
with anxious little glances. "I incline, sir," Maslama was saying,
"towards the opinion that whatever name one calls It by is no more
than a code; a cypher, Mr. Farishta, behind which the true name lies
concealed."
Gibreel remained silent, and Maslama, making no attempt to hide his
disappointment, was obliged to speak for him. "What is that true name,
I hear you inquire," he said, and then Gibreel knew he was right; the
man was a full-fledged lunatic, and his autobiography was very likely as
much of a concoction as his "faith". Fictions were walking around
wherever he went, Gibreel reflected, fictions masquerading as real
human beings. "I have brought him upon me," he accused himself. "By
fearing for my own sanity I have brought forth, from God knows what
dark recess, this voluble and maybe dangerous nut."
"You don't know it!" Maslama yelled suddenly, jumping to his feet.
"Charlatan! Poser! Fake! You claim to be the screen immortal, avatar of
a hundred and one gods, and you haven't a _foggy!_ How is it possible
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that I, a poor boy made good from Bartica on the Essequibo, can know
such things while Gibreel Farishta does not? Phoney! Phooey to you!"
Gibreel got to his feet, but the other was filling almost all the available
standing room, and he, Gibreel, had to lean over awkwardly to one side
to escape Maslama's windmilling arms, one of which knocked off his
grey trilby. At once Maslama's mouth fell open. He seemed to shrink
several inches, and after a few frozen moments, he fell to his knees with
a thud.
What's he doing down there, Gibreel wondered, picking up my hat? But
the madman was begging for forgiveness. "I never doubted you would
come," he was saying. "Pardon my clumsy rage." The train entered a
tunnel, and Gibreel saw that they were surrounded by a warm golden
light that was coming from a point just behind his head. In the glass of
the sliding door, he saw the reflection of the halo around his hair.
Maslama was struggling with his shoelaces. "All my life, sir, I knew I
had been chosen," he was saying in a voice as humble as it had earlier
been menacing. "Even as a child in Bartica, I knew." He pulled off his
right shoe and began to roll down his sock. "I was given," he said, "a
sign." The sock was removed, revealing what looked to be a perfectly
ordinary, if outsize, foot. Then Gibreel counted and counted again,
from one to six. "The same on the other foot," Maslama said proudly.
"I never doubted the meaning for a minute." He was the self--appointed
helpmate of the Lord, the sixth toe on the foot of the Universal Thing.
Something was badly amiss with the spiritual life of the planet, thought
Gibreel Farishta. Too many demons inside people claiming to believe in
God.
The train emerged from the tunnel. Gibreel took a decision. "Stand, six-
toed John," he intoned in his best Hindi movie manner. "Maslama,
arise."
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The other scrambled to his feet and stood pulling at his fingers, his
head bowed. "What I want to know, sir," he mumbled, "is, which is it to
be? Annihilation or salvation? Why have you returned?"
Gibreel thought rapidly. "It is for judging," he finally answered. "Facts
in the case must be sifted, due weight given pro and contra. Here it is
the human race that is the undertrial, and it is a defendant with a
rotten record: a history-sheeter, a bad egg. Careful evaluations must be
made. For the present, verdict is reserved; will be promulgated in due
course. In the meantime, my presence must remain a secret, for vital
security reasons." He put his hat back on his head, feeling pleased with
himself.
Maslama was nodding furiously. "You can depend on me," he promised.
"I'm a man who respects a person's privacy. Mum" -- for the second
time! -- "is the word."
Gibreel fled the compartment with the lunatic's hymns in hot pursuit.
As he rushed to the far end of the train Maslama's paeans remained
faintly audible behind him. "Alleluia! Alleluia!" Apparently his new
disciple had launched into selections from Handel's _Messiah_.
However: Gibreel wasn't followed, and there was, fortunately, a first-
class carriage at the rear of the train, too. This one was of open--plan
design, with comfortable orange seats arranged in fours around tables,
and Gibreel settled down by a window, staring towards London, with
his chest thumping and his hat jammed down on his head. He was
trying to come to terms with the undeniable fact of the halo, and
failing to do so, because what with the derangement of John Maslama
behind him and the excitement of Alleluia Cone ahead it was hard to
get his thoughts straight. Then to his despair Mrs. Rekha Merchant
floated up alongside his window, sitting on her flying Bokhara,
evidently impervious to the snowstorm that was building up out there
and making England look like a television set after the day's
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programmes end. She gave him a little wave and he felt hope ebbing
from him. Retribution on a levitating rug: he closed his eyes and
concentrated on trying not to shake.
"I know what a ghost is," Allie Cone said to a classroom of teenage girls
whose faces were illuminated by the soft inner light of worship. "In the
high Himalayas it is often the case that climbers find themselves being
accompanied by the ghosts of those who failed in the attempt, or the
sadder, but also prouder, ghosts of those who succeeded in reaching the
summit, only to perish on the way down."
Outside, in the Fields, the snow was settling on the high, bare trees, and
on the flat expanse of the park. Between the low, dark snow-clouds and
the white-carpeted city the light was a dirty yellow colour, a narrow,
foggy light that dulled the heart and made it impossible to dream. Up
_there_, Allie remembered, up there at eight thousand metres, the light
was of such clarity that it seemed to resonate, to sing, like music. Here
on the flat earth the light, too, was flat and earthbound. Here nothing
flew, the sedge was withered, and no birds sang. Soon it would be dark.
"Ms Cone?" The girls' hands, waving in the air, drew her back into the
classroom. "Ghosts, miss? Straight up?" "You're pulling our legs,
right?" Scepticism wrestled with adoration in their faces. She knew the
question they really wanted to ask, and probably would not: the
question of the miracle of her skin. She had heard them whispering
excitedly as she entered the classroom, 's true, look, how _pale_, 's
incredible. Alleluia Cone, whose iciness could resist the heat of the
eight-thousand-metre sun. Allie the snow maiden, the icequeen. _Miss,
how come you never get a tan?_ When she went up Everest with the
triumphant Collingwood expedition, the papers called them Snow
White and the Seven Dwarfs, though she was no Disneyish cutie, her
full lips pale rather than rose--red, her hair ice-blonde instead of black,
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her eyes not innocently wide but narrowed, out of habit, against the
high snowglare. A memory of Gibreel Farishta welled up, catching her
unawares: Gibreel at some point during their three and a half days,
booming with his usual foot-in-mouth lack of restraint, "Baby, you're
no iceberg, whatever they say. You're a passionate lady, bibi. Hot, like a
kachori." He had pretended to blow on scalded fingertips, and shook
his hand for emphasis: _0, too hot. O, throw water_. Gibreel Farishta.
She controlled herself: Hi ho, it's off to work.
"Ghosts," she repeated firmly. "On the Everest climb, after I came
through the ice-fall, I saw a man sitting on an outcrop in the lotus
position, with his eyes shut and a tartan tam--o"--shanter on his head,
chanting the old mantra: om mani padme hum." She had guessed at
once, from his archaic clothing and surprising behaviour, that this was
the spectre of Maurice Wilson, the yogi who had prepared for a solo
ascent of Everest, back in 1934, by starving himself for three weeks in
order to cement so deep a union between his body and soul that the
mountain would be too weak to tear them apart. He had gone up in a
light aircraft as high as it would take him, crash-landed deliberately in
a snowfield, headed upwards, and never returned. Wilson opened his
eyes as Allie approached, and nodded lightly in greeting. He strolled
beside her for the rest of that day, or hung in the air while she worked
her way up a face. Once he belly-flopped into the snow of a sharp
incline and glided upwards as if he were riding on an invisible anti-
gravity toboggan. Allie had found herself behaving quite naturally, as if
she'd just bumped into an old acquaintance, for reasons afterwards
obscure to her.
Wilson chattered on a fair bit -- "Don't get a lot of company these days,
one way and another" -- and expressed, among other things, his deep
irritation at having had his body discovered by the Chinese expedition
of 1960. "Little yellow buggers actually had the gall, the sheer face, to
film my corpse." Alleluia Cone was struck by the bright, yellow-and-
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black tartan of his immaculate knickerbockers. All this she told the
girls at Brickhall Fields Girls' School, who had written so many letters
pleading for her to address them that she had not been able to refuse.
"You've got to," they pleaded in writing. "You even live here." From the
window of the classroom she could see her flat across the park, just
visible through the thickening fall of snow.
What she did not tell the class was this: as Maurice Wilson's ghost
described, in patient detail, his own ascent, and also his posthumous
discoveries, for example the slow, circuitous, infinitely delicate and
invariably unproductive mating ritual of the yeti, which he had
witnessed recently on the South Col, -- so it occurred to her that her
vision of the eccentric of 1934, the first human being ever to attempt to
scale Everest on his own, a sort of abominable snowman himself, had
been no accident, but a kind of signpost, a declaration of kinship. A
prophecy of the future, perhaps, for it was at that moment that her
secret dream was born, the impossible thing: the dream of the
unaccompanied climb. It was possible, also, that Maurice Wilson was
the angel of her death.
"I wanted to talk about ghosts," she was saying, "because most
mountaineers, when they come down from the peaks, grow embarrassed
and leave these stories out of their accounts. But they do exist, I have to
admit it, even though I'm the type who's always kept her feet on solid
ground."
That was a laugh. Her feet. Even before the ascent of Everest she had
begun to suffer from shooting pains, and was informed by her general
practitioner, a no-nonsense Bombay woman called Dr. Mistry, that she
was suffering from fallen arches. "In common parlance, flat feet." Her
arches, always weak, had been further weakened by years of wearing
sneakers and other unsuitable shoes. Dr. Mistry couldn't recommend
much: toe-clenching exercises, running upstairs barefoot, sensible
footwear. "You're young enough," she said. "If you take care, you'll
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live. If not, you'll be a cripple at forty." When Gibreel -- damn it! --
heard that she had climbed Everest with spears in her feet he took to
calling her his silkie. He had read a Bumper Book of fairy-tales in which
he found the story of the sea-woman who left the ocean and took on
human form for the sake of the man she loved. She had feet instead of
fins, but every step she took was an agony, as if she were walking over
broken glass; yet she went on walking, forward, away from the sea and
over land. You did it for a bloody mountain, he said. Would you do it
for a man?
She had concealed her foot-ache from her fellow-mountaineers because
the lure of Everest had been so overwhelming. But these days the pain
was still there, and growing, if anything, worse. Chance, a congenital
weakness, was proving to be her footbinder. Adventure's end, Allie
thought; betrayed by my feet. The image of footbinding stayed with her.
_Goddamn Chinese_, she mused, echoing Wilson's ghost.
"Life is so easy for some people," she had wept into Gibreel Farishta's
arms. "Why don't _their_ blasted feet give out?" He had kissed her
forehead. "For you, it may always be a struggle," he said. "You want it
too damn much."
The class was waiting for her, growing impatient with all this talk of
phantoms. They wanted _the_ story, her story. They wanted to stand on
the mountain-top. _Do you know how it feels_, she wanted to ask them,
_to have the whole of your life concentrated into one moment, a few
hours long? Do you know what it's like when the only direction is
down?_ "I was in the second pair with Sherpa Pemba," she said. "The
weather was perfect, perfect. So clear you felt you could look right
through the sky into whatever lay beyond. The first pair must have
reached the summit by now, I said to Pemba. Conditions are holding
and we can go. Pemba grew very serious, quite a change, because he was
one of the expedition clowns. He had never been to the summit before,
either. At that stage I had no plans to go without oxygen, but when I
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saw that Pemba intended it, I thought, okay, me too. It was a stupid
whim, unprofessional, really, but I suddenly wanted to be a woman
sitting on top of that bastard mountain, a human being, not a
breathing machine. Pemba said, Allie Bibi, don't do, but I just started
up. In a while we passed the others coming down and I could see the
wonderful thing in their eyes. They were so high, possessed of such an
exaltation, that they didn't even notice I wasn't wearing the oxygen
equipment. Be careful, they shouted over to us, Look out for the angels.
Pemba had fallen into a good breathing pattern and I fell into step with
it, breathing in with his in, out with his out. I could feel something
lifting off the top of my head and I was grinning, just grinning from ear
to ear, and when Pemba looked my way I could see he was doing the
same. It looked like a grimace, like pain, but it was just foolish joy."
She was a woman who had been brought to transcendence, to the
miracles of the soul, by the hard physical labour of hauling herself up
an icebound height of rock. "At that moment," she told the girls, who
were climbing beside her every step of the way, "I believed it all: that
the universe has a sound, that you can lift a veil and see the face of
God, everything. I saw the Himalayas stretching below me and that was
God's face, too. Pemba must have seen something in my expression that
bothered him because he called across, Look out, Allie Bibi, the height.
I recall sort of floating over the last overhang and up to the top, and
then we were there, with the ground falling away on every side. Such
light; the universe purified into light. I wanted to tear off my clothes
and let it soak into my skin." Not a titter from the class; they were
dancing naked with her on the roof of the world. "Then the visions
began, the rainbows looping and dancing in the sky, the radiance
pouring down like a waterfall from the sun, and there were angels, the
others hadn't been joking. I saw them and so did Sherpa Pemba. We
were on our knees by then. His pupils looked pure white and so did
mine, I'm sure. We would probably have died there, I'm sure, snow-
blind and mountain-foolish, but then I heard a noise, a loud, sharp
report, like a gun. That snapped me out of it. I had to yell at Pem until
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he, too, shook himself and we started down. The weather was changing
rapidly; a blizzard was on the way. The air was heavy now, heaviness
instead of that light, that lightness. We just made it to the meeting
point and the four of us piled into the little tent at Camp Six, twenty-
seven thousand feet. You don't talk much up there. We all had our
Everests to re-climb, over and over, all night. But at some point I asked:
"What was that noise? Did anyone fire a gun?" They looked at me as if I
was touched. Who'd do such a damnfool thing at this altitude, they
said, and anyway, Allie, you know damn well there isn't a gun anywhere
on the mountain. They were right, of course, but I heard it, I know that
much: wham bam, shot and echo. That's it," she ended abruptly. "The
end. Story of my life." She picked up a silver-headed cane and prepared
to depart. The teacher, Mrs. Bury, came forward to utter the usual
platitudes. But the girls were not to be denied. "So what was it, then,
Allie?" they insisted; and she, looking suddenly ten years older than her
thirty-three, shrugged. "Can't say," she told them. "Maybe it was
Maurice Wilson's ghost."
She left the classroom, leaning heavily on her stick.
The city -- Proper London, yaar, no bloody less! -- was dressed in white,
like a mourner at a funeral. -- Whose bloody funeral, mister, Gibreel
Farishta asked himself wildly, not mine, I bloody hope and trust. When
the train pulled into Victoria station he plunged out without waiting
for it to come to a complete halt, turned his ankle and went sprawling
beneath the baggage trolleys and sneers of the waiting Londoners,
clinging, as he fell, on to his increasingly battered hat. Rekha Merchant
was nowhere to be seen, and seizing the moment Gibreel ran through
the scattering crowd like a man possessed, only to find her by the ticket
barrier, floating patiently on her carpet, invisible to all eyes but his
own, three feet off the ground.
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"What do you want," he burst out, "what's your business with me?"
"To watch you fall," she instantly replied. "Look around," she added,
"I've already made you look like a pretty big fool."
People were clearing a space around Gibreel, the wild man in an outsize
overcoat and trampy hat, _that man's talking to himself_, a child's
voice said, and its mother answered _shh, dear, it's wicked to mock the
afflicted_. Welcome to London. Gibreel Farishta rushed towards the
stairs leading down towards the Tube. Rekha on her carpet let him go.
But when he arrived in a great rush at the northbound platform of the
Victoria Line he saw her again. This time she was a colour photograph
in a 48--sheet advertising poster on the wall across the track,
advertising the merits of the international direct—dialling system.
_Send your voice on a magic-carpet ride to India_, she advised. _No
djinns or lamps required_. He gave a loud cry, once again causing his
fellow-travellers to doubt his sanity, and fled over to the southbound
platform, where a train was just pulling in. He leapt aboard, and there
was Rekha Merchant facing him with her carpet rolled up and lying
across her knees. The doors closed behind him with a bang.
That day Gibreel Farishta fled in every direction around the
Underground of the city of London and Rekha Merchant found him
wherever he went; she sat beside him on the endless up-escalator at
Oxford Circus and in the tightly packed elevators of Tufnell Park she
rubbed up against him from behind in a manner that she would have
thought quite outrageous during her lifetime. On the outer reaches of
the Metropolitan Line she hurled the phantoms of her children from
the tops of claw--like trees, and when he came up for air outside the
Bank of England she flung herself histrionically from the apex of its
neo-classical pediment. And even though he did not have any idea of
the true shape of that most protean and chameleon of cities he grew
convinced that it kept changing shape as he ran around beneath it, so
that the stations on the Underground changed lines and followed one
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another in apparently random sequence. More than once he emerged,
suffocating, from that subterranean world in which the laws of space
and time had ceased to operate, and tried to hail a taxi; not one was
willing to stop, however, so he was obliged to plunge back into that
hellish maze, that labyrinth without a solution, and continue his epic
flight. At last, exhausted beyond hope, he surrendered to the fatal logic
of his insanity and got out arbitrarily at what he conceded must be the
last, meaningless station of his prolonged and futile journey in search
of the chimera of renewal. He came out into the heartbreaking
indifference of a litter-blown street by a lorry--infested roundabout.
Darkness had already fallen as he walked unsteadily, using the last
reserves of his optimism, into an unknown park made spectral by the
ectoplasmic quality of the tungsten lamps. As he sank to his knees in
the isolation of the winter night he saw the figure of a woman moving
slowly towards him across the snow-shrouded grass, and surmised that
it must be his nemesis, Rekha Merchant, coming to deliver her death-
kiss, to drag him down into a deeper underworld than the one in which
she had broken his wounded spirit. He no longer cared, and by the time
the woman reached him he had fallen forward on to his forearms, his
coat dangling loosely about him and giving him the look of a large,
dying beetle who was wearing, for obscure reasons, a dirty grey trilby
hat.
As if from a great distance he heard a shocked cry escape the woman's
lips, a gasp in which disbelief, joy and a strange resentment were all
mixed up, and just before his senses left him he understood that Rekha
had permitted him, for the time being, to reach the illusion of a safe
haven, so that her triumph over him could be the sweeter when it came
at the last.
"You're alive," the woman said, repeating the first words she had ever
spoken to his face. "You got your life back. That's the point.,
Smiling, he fell asleep at Allie's flat feet in the falling snow.
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IV. Ayesha
Even the serial visions have migrated now; they know the city better
than he. And in the aftermath of Rosa and Rekha the dream-worlds of
his archangelic other self begin to seem as tangible as the shifting
realities he inhabits while he's awake. This, for instance, has started
coming: a mansion block built in the Dutch style in a part of London
which he will subsequently identify as Kensington, to which the dream
flies him at high speed past Barkers department store and the small
grey house with double bay windows where Thackeray wrote _Vanity
Fair_ and the square with the convent where the little girls in uniform
are always going in, but never come out, and the house where
Talleyrand lived in his old age when after a thousand and one
chameleon changes of allegiance and principle he took on the outward
form of the French ambassador to London, and arrives at a seven-
storey corner block with green wrought — iron balconies up to the
fourth, and now the dream rushes him up the outer wall of the house
and on the fourth floor it pushes aside the heavy curtains at the living-
room window and finally there he sits, unsleeping as usual, eyes wide in
the dim yellow light, staring into the future, the bearded and turbaned
Imam.
Who is he? An exile. Which must not be confused with, allowed to run
into, all the other words that people throw around: emigre, expatriate,
refugee, immigrant, silence, cunning. Exile is a dream of glorious
return. Exile is a vision of revolution: Elba, not St Helena. It is an
endless paradox: looking forward by always looking back. The exile is a
ball hurled high into the air. He hangs there, frozen in time, translated
into a photograph; denied motion, suspended impossibly above his
native earth, he awaits the inevitable moment at which the photograph
must begin to move, and the earth reclaim its own. These are the things
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the Imam thinks. His home is a rented flat. It is a waiting-- room, a
photograph, air.
The thick wallpaper, olive stripes on a cream ground, has faded a little,
enough to emphasize the brighter rectangles and ovals that indicate
where pictures used to hang. The Imam is the enemy of images. When
he moved in the pictures slid noiselessly from the walls and slunk from
the room, removing themselves from the rage of his unspoken
disapproval. Some representations, however, are permitted to remain.
On the mantelpiece he keeps a small group of postcards bearing
conventional images of his homeland, which he calls simply Desh: a
mountain looming over a city; a picturesque village scene beneath a
mighty tree; a mosque. But in his bedroom, on the wall facing the hard
cot where he lies, there hangs a more potent icon, the portrait of a
woman of exceptional force, famous for her profile of a Grecian statue
and the black hair that is as long as she is high. A powerful woman, his
enemy, his other: he keeps her close. Just as, far away in the palaces of
her omnipotence she will be clutching his portrait beneath her royal
cloak or hiding it in a locket at her throat. She is the Empress, and her
name is -- what else? -- Ayesha. On this island, the exiled Imam, and at
home in Desh, She. They plot each other's deaths.
The curtains, thick golden velvet, are kept shut all day, because
otherwise the evil thing might creep into the apartment: foreignness,
Abroad, the alien nation. The harsh fact that he is here and not There,
upon which all his thoughts are fixed. On those rare occasions when the
Imam goes out to take the Kensington air, at the centre of a square
formed by eight young men in sunglasses and bulging suits, he folds his
hands before him and fixes his gaze upon them, so that no element or
particle of this hated city, -- this sink of iniquities which humiliates
him by giving him sanctuary, so that he must be beholden to it in spite
of the lustfulness, greed and vanity of its ways, -- can lodge itself, like a
dust--speck, in his eyes. When he leaves this loathed exile to return in
215
triumph to that other city beneath the postcard-mountain, it will be a
point of pride to be able to say that he remained in complete ignorance
of the Sodom in which he had been obliged to wait; ignorant, and
therefore unsullied, unaltered, pure.
And another reason for the drawn curtains is that of course there are
eyes and ears around him, not all of them friendly. The orange
buildings are not neutral. Somewhere across the street there will be
zoom lenses, video equipment, jumbo mikes; and always the risk of
snipers. Above and below and beside the Imam are the safe apartments
occupied by his guards, who stroll the Kensington streets disguised as
women in shrouds and silvery beaks; but it is as well to be too careful.
Paranoia, for the exile, is a prerequisite of survival.
A fable, which he heard from one of his favourites, the American
convert, formerly a successful singer, now known as Bilal X. In a certain
nightclub to which the Imam is in the habit of sending his lieutenants
to listen in to certain other persons belonging to certain opposed
factions, Bilal met a young man from Desh, also a singer of sorts, so
they fell to talking. It turned out that this Mahmood was a badly scared
individual. He had recently _shacked up_ with a gori, a long red woman
with a big figure, and then it turned out that the previous lover of his
beloved Renata was the exiled boss of the S A V A K torture
organization of the Shah of Iran. The number one Grand Panjandrum
himself, not some minor sadist with a talent for extracting toenails or
setting fire to eyelids, but the great haramzada in person. The day after
Mahmood and Renata moved in to their new apartment a letter arrived
for Mahmood. _Okay, shit-eater, you're fucking my woman, I just
wanted to say hello_. The next day a second letter arrived. _By the way,
prick, I forgot to mention, here is your new telephone number_. At that
point Mahmood and Renata had asked for an exdirectory listing but
had not as yet been given their new number by the telephone company.
When it came through two days later and was exactly the same as the
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one on the letter, Mahmood's hair fell out all at once. Then, seeing it
lying on the pillow, he joined his hands together in front of Renata and
begged, "Baby, I love you, but you're too hot for me, please go
somewhere, far far." When the Imam was told this story he shook his
head and said, that whore, who will touch her now, in spite of her
lustcreating body? She put a stain on herself worse than leprosy; thus
do human beings mutilate themselves. But the true moral of the fable
was the need for eternal vigilance. London was a city in which the ex-
boss of S A V A K had great connections in the telephone company and
the Shah's ex-chef ran a thriving restaurant in Hounslow. Such a
welcoming city, such a refuge, they take all types. Keep the curtains
drawn.
Floors three to five of this block of mansion flats are, for the moment,
all the homeland the Imam possesses. Here there are rifles and short-
wave radios and rooms in which the sharp young men in suits sit and
speak urgently into several telephones. There is no alcohol here, nor are
playing cards or dice anywhere in evidence, and the only woman is the
one hanging on the old man's bedroom wall. In this surrogate
homeland, which the insomniac saint thinks of as his waiting-room or
transit lounge, the central heating is at full blast night and day, and the
windows are tightly shut. The exile cannot forget, and must therefore
simulate, the dry heat of Desh, the once and future land where even the
moon is hot and dripping like a fresh, buttered chapati. O that longed-
for part of the world where the sun and moon are male but their hot
sweet light is named with female names. At night the exile parts his
curtains and the alien moonlight sidles into the room, its coldness
striking his eyeballs like a nail. He winces, narrows his eyes. Loose-
robed, frowning, ominous, awake: this is the Imam.
Exile is a soulless country. In exile, the furniture is ugly, expensive, all
bought at the same time in the same store and in too much of a hurry:
shiny silver sofas with fins like old Buicks DeSotos Oldsmobiles, glass-
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fronted bookcases containing not books but clippings files. In exile the
shower goes scalding hot whenever anybody turns on a kitchen tap, so
that when the Imam goes to bathe his entire retinue must remember not
to fill a kettle or rinse a dirty plate, and when the Imam goes to the
toilet his disciples leap scalded from the shower. In exile no food is ever
cooked; the dark-spectacled bodyguards go out for takeaway. In exile all
attempts to put down roots look like treason: they are admissions of
defeat.
The Imam is the centre of a wheel.
Movement radiates from him, around the clock. His son, Khalid, enters
his sanctum bearing a glass of water, holding it in his right hand with
his left palm under the glass. The Imam drinks water constantly, one
glass every five minutes, to keep himself clean; the water itself is
cleansed of impurities, before he sips, in an American filtration
machine. All the young men surrounding him are well aware of his
famous Monograph on Water, whose purity, the Imam believes,
communicates itself to the drinker, its thinness and simplicity, the
ascetic pleasures of its taste. "The Empress," he points out, "drinks
wine." Burgundies, clarets, hocks mingle their intoxicating corruptions
within that body both fair and foul. The sin is enough to condemn her
for all time without hope of redemption. The picture on his bedroom
wall shows the Empress Ayesha holding, in both hands, a human skull
filled with a dark red fluid. The Empress drinks blood, but the Imam is
a water man. "Not for nothing do the peoples of our hot lands offer it
reverence," the Monograph proclaims. "Water, preserver of life. No
civilized individual can refuse it to another. A grandmother, be her
limbs ever so arthritically stiff, will rise at once and go to the tap if a
small child should come to her and ask, pani, nani. Beware all those
who blaspheme against it. Who pollutes it, dilutes his soul."
The Imam has often vented his rage upon the memory of the late Aga
Khan, as a result of being shown the text of an interview in which the
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head of the Ismailis was observed drinking vintage champagne. _0, sir,
this champagne is only for outward show. The instant it touches my
lips, it turns to water_. Fiend, the Imam is wont to thunder. Apostate,
blasphemer, fraud. When the future comes such individuals will be
judged, he tells his men. Water will have its day and blood will flow like
wine. Such is the miraculous nature of the future of exiles: what is first
uttered in the impotence of an overheated apartment becomes the fate
of nations. Who has not dreamed this dream, of being a king for a day?
-- But the Imam dreams of more than a day; feels, emanating from his
fingertips, the arachnid strings with which he will control the
movement of history.
No: not history.
His is a stranger dream.
His son, water-carrying Khalid, bows before his father like a pilgrim at a
shrine, informs him that the guard on duty outside the sanctum is
Salman Farsi. Bilal is at the radio transmitter, broadcasting the day's
message, on the agreed frequency, to Desh.
The Imam is a massive stillness, an immobility. He is living stone. His
great gnarled hands, granite--grey, rest heavily on the wings of his high-
backed chair. His head, looking too large for the body beneath, lolls
ponderously on the surprisingly scrawny neck that can be glimpsed
through the grey-black wisps of beard. The Imam's eyes are clouded; his
lips do not move. He is pure force, an elemental being; he moves
without motion, acts without doing, speaks without uttering a sound.
He is the conjurer and history is his trick.
No, not history: something stranger.
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The explanation of this conundrum is to be heard, at this very moment,
on certain surreptitious radio waves, on which the voice of the
American convert Bilal is singing the Imam's holy song. Bilal the
muezzin: his voice enters a ham radio in Kensington and emerges in
dreamed-of Desh, transmuted into the thunderous speech of the Imam
himself. Beginning with ritual abuse of the Empress, with lists of her
crimes, murders, bribes, sexual relations with lizards, and so on, he
proceeds eventually to issue in ringing tones the Imam's nightly call to
his people to rise up against the evil of her State. "We will make a
revolution," the Imam proclaims through him, "that is a revolt not only
against a tyrant, but against history." For there is an enemy beyond
Ayesha, and it is History herself. History is the blood--wine that must
no longer be drunk. History the intoxicant, the creation and possession
of the Devil, of the great Shaitan, the greatest of the lies -- progress,
science, rights -- against which the Imam has set his face. History is a
deviation from the Path, knowledge is a delusion, because the sum of
knowledge was complete on the day AlLah finished his revelation to
Mahound. "We will unmake the veil of history," Bilal declaims into the
listening night, "and when it is unravelled, we will see Paradise
standing there, in all its glory and light." The Imam chose Bilal for this
task on account of the beauty of his voice, which in its previous
incarnation succeeded in climbing the Everest of the hit parade, not
once but a dozen times, to the very top. The voice is rich and
authoritative, a voice in the habit of being listened to; well--nourished,
highly trained, the voice of American confidence, a weapon of the West
turned against its makers, whose might upholds the Empress and her
tyranny. In the early days Bilal X protested at such a description of his
voice. He, too, belonged to an oppressed people, he insisted, so that it
was unjust to equate him with the Yankee imperialists. The Imam
answered, not without gentleness: Bilal, your suffering is ours as well.
But to be raised in the house of power is to learn its ways, to soak them
up, through that very skin that is the cause of your oppression. The
habit of power, its timbre, its posture, its way of being with others. It is
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a disease, Bilal, infecting all who come too near it. If the powerful
trample over you, you are infected by the soles of their feet.
Bilal continues to address the darkness. "Death to the tyranny of the
Empress Ayesha, of calendars, of America, of time! We seek the eternity,
the timelessness, of God. His still waters, not her flowing wines." Burn
the books and trust the Book; shred the papers and hear the Word, as it
was revealed by the Angel Gibreel to the Messenger Mahound and
explicated by your interpreter and Imam. "Ameen," Bilal said,
concluding the night's proceedings. While, in his sanctum, the Imam
sends a message of his own: and summons, conjures up, the archangel,
Gibreel.
He sees himself in the dream: no angel to look at, just a man in his
ordinary street clothes, Henry Diamond's posthumous handme-downs:
gabardine and trilby over outsize trousers held up by braces, a
fisherman's woollen pullover, billowy white shirt. This dream-Gibreel,
so like the waking one, stands quaking in the sanctum of the Imam,
whose eyes are white as clouds.
Gibreel speaks querulously, to hide his fear.
"Why insist on archangels? Those days, you should know, are gone."
The Imam closes his eyes, sighs. The carpet extrudes long hairy tendrils,
which wrap themselves around Gibreel, holding him fast.
"You don't need me," Gibreel emphasizes. "The revelation is complete.
Let me go."
The other shakes his head, and speaks, except that his lips do not move,
and it is Bilal's voice that fills Gibreel's ears, even though the
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broadcaster is nowhere to be seen, _tonight's the night_, the voice says,
_and you must fly me to Jerusalem_.
Then the apartment dissolves and they are standing on the roof beside
the water--tank, because the Imam, when he wishes to move, can remain
still and move the world around him. His beard is blowing in the wind.
It is longer now; if it were not for the wind that catches at it as if it
were a flowing chiffon scarf, it would touch the ground by his feet; he
has red eyes, and his voice hangs around him in the sky. Take me.
Gibreel argues, Seems you can do it easily by yourself: but the Imam, in
a single movement of astonishing rapidity, slings his beard over his
shoulder, hoists up his skirts to reveal two spindly legs with an almost
monstrous covering of hair, and leaps high into the night air, twirls
himself about, and settles on Gibreel's shoulders, clutching on to him
with fingernails that have grown into long, curved claws. Gibreel feels
himself rising into the sky, bearing the old man of the sea, the Imam
with hair that grows longer by the minute, streaming in every direction,
his eyebrows like pennants in the wind.
Jerusalem, he wonders, which way is that? -- And then, it's a slippery
word, Jerusalem, it can be an idea as well as a place: a goal, an
exaltation. Where is the Imam's Jerusalem? "The fall of the harlot," the
disembodied voice resounds in his ears. "Her crash, the Babylonian
whore."
They zoom through the night. The moon is heating up, beginning to
bubble like cheese under a grill; he, Gibreel, sees pieces of it falling off
from time to time, moon-drips that hiss and bubble on the sizzling
griddle of the sky. Land appears below them. The heat grows intense.
It is an immense landscape, reddish, with flat-topped trees. They fly
over mountains that are also flat-topped; even the stones, here, are
flattened by the heat. Then they come to a high mountain of almost
perfectly conical dimensions, a mountain that also sits postcarded on a
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mantelpiece far away; and in the shadow of the mountain, a city,
sprawling at its feet like a supplicant, and on the mountain's lower
slopes, a palace, the palace, her place: the Empress, whom radio
messages have unmade. This is a revolution of radio hams.
Gibreel, with the Imam riding him like a carpet, swoops lower, and in
the steaming night it looks as if the streets are alive, they seem to be
writhing, like snakes; while in front of the palace of the Empress's
defeat a new hill seems to be growing, _while we watch, baba, what's
going on here?_ The Imam's voice hangs in the sky: "Come down. I will
show you Love."
They are at rooftop--level when Gibreel realizes that the streets are
swarming with people. Human beings, packed so densely into those
snaking paths that they have blended into a larger, composite entity,
relentless, serpentine. The people move slowly, at an even pace, down
alleys into lanes, down lanes into side streets, down side streets into
highways, all of them converging upon the grand avenue, twelve lanes
wide and lined with giant eucalyptus trees, that leads to the palace
gates. The avenue is packed with humanity; it is the central organ of the
new, manyheaded being. Seventy abreast, the people walk gravely
towards the Empress's gates. In front of which her household guards
are waiting in three ranks, lying, kneeling and standing, with machine-
guns at the ready. The people are walking up the slope towards the
guns; seventy at a time, they come into range; the guns babble, and they
die, and then the next seventy climb over the bodies of the dead, the
guns giggle once again, and the hill of the dead grows higher. Those
behind it commence, in their turn, to climb. In the dark doorways of
the city there are mothers with covered heads, pushing their beloved
sons into the parade, _go, be a martyr, do the needful, die_. "You see
how they love me," says the disembodied voice. "No tyranny on earth
can withstand the power of this slow, walking love."
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"This isn't love," Gibreel, weeping, replies. "It's hate. She has driven
them into your arms." The explanation sounds thin, superficial.
"They love me," the Imam's voice says, "because I am water. I am
fertility and she is decay. They love me for my habit of smashing clocks.
Human beings who turn away from God lose love, and certainty, and
also the sense of His boundless time, that encompasses past, present
and future; the timeless time, that has no need to move. We long for the
eternal, and I am eternity. She is nothing: a tick, or tock. She looks in
her mirror every day and is terrorized by the idea of age, of time
passing. Thus she is the prisoner of her own nature; she, too, is in the
chains of Time. After the revolution there will be no clocks; we'll smash
the lot. The word _clock_ will be expunged from our dictionaries. After
the revolution there will be no birthdays. We shall all be born again, all
of us the same unchanging age in the eye of Almighty God."
He falls silent, now, because below us the great moment has come: the
people have reached the guns. Which are silenced in their turn, as the
endless serpent of the people, the gigantic python of the risen masses,
embraces the guards, suffocating them, and silences the lethal
chuckling of their weapons. The Imam sighs heavily. "Done."
The lights of the palace are extinguished as the people walk towards it,
at the same measured pace as before. Then, from within the darkened
palace, there rises a hideous sound, beginning as a high, thin, piercing
wail, then deepening into a howl, an ululation loud enough to fill every
cranny of the city with its rage. Then the golden dome of the palace
bursts open like an egg, and rising from it, glowing with blackness, is a
mythological apparition with vast black wings, her hair streaming
loose, as long and black as the Imam's is long and white: Al--Lat,
Gibreel understands, bursting out of Ayesha's shell.
"Kill her," the Imam commands.
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Gibreel sets him down on the palace's ceremonial balcony, his arms
outstretched to encompass the joy of the people, a sound that drowns
even the howls of the goddess and rises up like a song. And then he is
being propelled into the air, having no option, he is a marionette going
to war; and she, seeing him coming, turns, crouches in air, and,
moaning dreadfully, comes at him with all her might. Gibreel
understands that the Imam, fighting by proxy as usual, will sacrifice
him as readily as he did the hill of corpses at the palace gate, that he is
a suicide soldier in the service of the cleric's cause. I am weak, he
thinks, I am no match for her, but she, too, has been weakened by her
defeat. The Imam's strength moves Gibreel, places thunderbolts in his
hands, and the battle is joined; he hurls lightning spears into her feet
and she plunges comets into his groin, _we are killing each other_, he
thinks, _we will die and there will be two new constellations in space:
Al-Lat, and Gibreel_. Like exhausted warriors on a corpse-- littered
field, they totter and slash. Both are failing fast.
She falls.
Down she tumbles, Al-Lat queen of the night; crashes upsidedown to
earth, crushing her head to bits; and lies, a headless black angel, with
her wings ripped off, by a little wicket gate in the palace gardens, all in
a crumpled heap. -- And Gibreel, looking away from her in horror, sees
the Imam grown monstrous, lying in the palace forecourt with his
mouth yawning open at the gates; as the people march through the
gates he swallows them whole.
The body of Al-Lat has shrivelled on the grass, leaving behind only a
dark stain; and now every clock in the capital city of Desh begins to
chime, and goes on unceasingly, beyond twelve, beyond twenty-four,
beyond one thousand and one, announcing the end of Time, the hour
that is beyond measuring, the hour of the exile's return, of the victory
of water over wine, of the commencement of the Untimc of the Imam.
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When the nocturnal story changes, when, without warning, the progress
of events injahilia and Yathrib gives way to the struggle of Imam and
Empress, Gibreel briefly hopes that the curse has ended, that his dreams
have been restored to the random eccentricity of ordinary life; but then,
as the new story, too, falls into the old pattern, continuing each time he
drops off from the precise point at which it was interrupted, and as his
own image, translated into an avatar of the archangel, re-enters the
frame, so his hope dies, and he succumbs once more to the inexorable.
Things have reached the point at which some of his night-sagas seem
more bearable than others, and after the apocalypse of the Imam he
feels almost pleased when the next narrative begins, extending his
internal repertory, because at least it suggests that the deity whom he,
Gibreel, has tried unsuccessfully to kill can be a God of love, as well as
one of vengeance, power, duty, rules and hate; and it is, too, a nostalgic
sort of tale, of a lost homeland; it feels like a return to the past . . .
what story is, this? Coming right up. To begin at the beginning: On the
morning of his fortieth birthday, in a room full of butterflies, Mirza
Saeed Akhtar watched his sleeping wife.
On the fateful morning of his fortieth birthday, in a room full of
butterflies, the zamindar Mirza Saeed Akhtar watched over his sleeping
wife, and felt his heart fill up to the bursting-point with love. He had
awoken early for once, rising before dawn with a bad dream souring his
mouth, his recurring dream of the end of the world, in which the
catastrophe was invariably his fault. He had been reading Nietzsche the
night before -- "the pitiless end of that small, overextended species
called Man" -- and had fallen asleep with the book resting face
downwards on his chest. Waking to the rustle of butterfly wings in the
cool, shadowy bedroom, he was angry with himself for being so foolish
in his choice of bedside reading matter. He was, however, wide awake
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now. Getting up quietly, he slipped his feet into chappals and strolled
idly along the verandas of the great mansion, still in darkness on
account of their lowered blinds, and the butterflies bobbed like
courtiers at his back. In the far distance, someone was playing a flute.
Mirza Saecd drew up the chick blinds and fastened their cords. The
gardens were deep in mist, through which the butterfly clouds were
swirling, one mist intersecting another. This remote region had always
been renowned for its lepidoptera, for these miraculous squadrons that
filled the air by day and night, butterflies with the gift of chameleons,
whose wings changed colour as they settled on vermilion flowers, ochre
curtains, obsidian goblets or amber finger-rings. In the zamindar's
mansion, and also in the nearby village, the miracle of the butterflies
had become so familiar as to seem mundane, but in fact they had only
returned nineteen years ago, as the servant women would recall. They
had been the familiar spirits, or so the legend ran, of a local saint, the
holy woman known only as Bibiji, who had lived to the age of two
hundred and forty-two and whose grave, until its location was
forgotten, had the property of curing impotence and warts. Since the
death of Bibiji one hundred and twenty years ago the butterflies had
vanished into the same realm of the legendary as Bibiji herself, so that
when they came back exactly one hundred and one years after their
departure it looked, at first, like an omen of some imminent, wonderful
thing. After Bibiji's death -- it should quickly be said -- the village had
continued to prosper, the potato crops remained plentiful, but there
had been a gap in many hearts, even though the villagers of the present
had no memory of the time of the old saint. So the return of the
butterflies lifted many spirits, but when the expected wonders failed to
materialize the locals sank back, little by little, into the insufficiency of
the day-to-day. The name of the zamindar's mansion, _Peristan_, may
have had its origins in the magical creatures' fairy wings, and the
village's name, _Titlipur_, certainly did. But names, once they are in
common use, quickly become mere sounds, their etymology being
buried, like so many of the earth's marvels, beneath the dust of habit.
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The human inhabitants of Titlipur, and its butterfly hordes, moved
amongst one another with a kind of mutual disdain. The villagers and
the zamindar's family had long ago abandoned the attempt to exclude
the butterflies from their homes, so that now whenever a trunk was
opened, a batch of wings would fly out of it like Pandora's imps,
changing colour as they rose; there were butterflies under the closed
lids of the thunderboxes in the toilets of Peristan, and inside every
wardrobe, and between the pages of books. When you awoke you found
the butterflies sleeping on your cheeks.
The commonplace eventually becomes invisible, and Mirza Saeed had
not really noticed the butterflies for a number of years. On the morning
of his fortieth birthday, however, as the first light of dawn touched the
house and the butterflies began instantly to glow, the beauty of the
moment took his breath away. He ran at once to the bedroom in the
zenana wing in which his wife Mishal lay sleeping, veiled in a mosquito-
-net. The magic butterflies were resting on her exposed toes, and a
mosquito had evidently found its way inside as well, because there was a
line of little bites along the raised edge of her collar--bone. He wanted
to lift the net, crawl inside and kiss the bites until they faded away.
How inflamed they looked! How, when she awoke, they would itch! But
he held himself back, preferring to enjoy the innocence of her sleeping
form. She had soft, red-brown hair, white white skin, and her eyes,
behind the closed lids, were silky grey. Her father was a director of the
state bank, so it had been an irresistible match, an arranged marriage
which restored the fortunes of the Mirza's ancient, decaying family and
then ripened, over time and in spite of their failure to have children,
into a union of real love. Full of emotion, Mirza Saeed watched Mishal
sleep and chased the last shreds of his nightmare from his mind. "How
can the world be done for," he reasoned contentedly to himself, "if it
can offer up such instances of perfection as this lovely dawn?"
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Continuing down the line of these happy thoughts, he formulated a
silent speech to his resting wife. "Mishal, I'm forty years old and as
contented as a forty-day babe. I see now that I've been falling deeper
and deeper into our love over the years, and now I swim, like some fish,
in that warm sea." How much she gave him, he marvelled; how much he
needed her! Their marriage transcended mere sensuality, was so
intimate that a separation was unthinkable. "Growing old beside you,"
he told her while she slept, "will be, Mishal, a privilege." He permitted
himself the sentimentality of blowing a kiss in her direction and then
tiptoeing from the room. Out once more on the main veranda of his
private quarters on the mansion's upper storey, he glanced across to the
gardens, which were coming into view as the dawn lifted the mist, and
saw the sight that would destroy his peace of mind forever, smashing it
beyond hope of repair at the very instant in which he had become
certain of its invulnerability to the ravages of fate.
A young woman was squatting on the lawn, holding out her left palm.
Butterflies were settling on this surface while, with her right hand, she
picked them up and put them in her mouth. Slowly, methodically, she
breakfasted on the acquiescent wings.
Her lips, cheeks, chin were heavily stained by the many different colours
that had rubbed off the dying butterflies.
When Mirza Saeed Akhtar saw the young woman eating her gossamer
breakfast on his lawn, he felt a surge of lust so powerful that he
instantly felt ashamed. "It's impossible," he scolded himself, "I am not
an animal, after all." The young woman wore a saffron yellow sari
wrapped around her nakedness, after the fashion of the poor women of
that region, and as she stooped over the butterflies the sari, hanging
loosely forwards, bared her small breasts to the gaze of the transfixed
zamindar. Mirza Saeed stretched out his hands to grip the balcony
railing, and the slight movement of his white kurta must have caught
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her eye, because she lifted her head quickly and looked right into his
face.
And did not immediately look down again. Nor did she get up and run
away, as he had half expected.
What she did: waited for a few seconds, as though to see if he intended
to speak. When he did not, she simply resumed her strange meal
without taking her eyes from his face. The strangest aspect of it was
that the butterflies seemed to be funnelling downwards from the
brightening air, going willingly towards her outstretched palms and
their own deaths. She held them by the wingtips, threw her head back
and flicked them into her mouth with the tip of her narrow tongue.
Once she kept her mouth open, the dark lips parted defiantly, and
Mirza Saced trembled to see the butterfly fluttering within the dark
cavern of its death, yet making no attempt to escape. When she was
satisfied that he had seen this, she brought her lips together and began
to chew. They remained thus, peasant woman below, landowner above,
until her eyes unexpectedly rolled upwards in their sockets and she fell
heavily, twitching violently, on to her left side.
After a few seconds of transfixed panic, the Mirza shouted, "Ohe,
house! Ohe, wake up, emergency!" At the same time he ran towards the
stately mahogany staircase from England, brought here from some
unimaginable Warwickshire, some fantastic location in which, in a
damp and lightless priory, King Charles I had ascended these same
steps, before losing his head, in the seventeenth century of another
system of time. Down these stairs hurtled Mirza Saeed Akhtar, last of
his line, trampling over the ghostly impressions of beheaded feet as he
sped towards the lawn.
The girl was having convulsions, crushing butterflies beneath her
rolling, kicking body. Mirza Saeed got to her first, although the
servants and Mishal, awakened by his cry, were not far behind. He
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grasped the girl by the jaw and forced it open, inserting a nearby twig,
which she at once bit in half. Blood trickled from her cut mouth, and
he feared for her tongue, but the sickness left her just then, she became
calm, and slept. Mishal had her carried to her own bedroom, and now
Mirza Saeed was obliged to gaze on a second sleeping beauty in that
bed, and was stricken for a second time by what seemed too rich and
deep a sensation to be called by the crude name, _lust_. He found that
he was at once sickened by his own impure designs and also elated by
the feelings that were coursing within him, fresh feelings whose
newness excited him greatly. Mishal came to stand beside her husband.
"Do you know her?" Saeed asked, and she nodded. "An orphan girl. She
makes small enamel animals and sells them at the trunk road. She has
had the falling sickness since she was very little." Mirza Saeed was
awed, not for the first time, by his wife's gift of involvement with other
human beings. He himself could hardly recognize more than a handful
of the villagers, but she knew each person's pet names, family histories
and incomes. They even told her their dreams, although few of them
dreamed more than once a month on account of being too poor to
afford such luxuries. The overflowing fondness he had felt at dawn
returned, and he placed his arm around her shoulders. She leaned her
head against him and said softly: "Happy birthday." He kissed the top
of her hair. They stood embracing, watching the sleeping girl. Ayesha:
his wife told him the name.
After the orphan girl Ayesha arrived at puberty and became, on account
of her distracted beauty and her air of staring into another world, the
object of many young men's desires, it began to be said that she was
looking for a lover from heaven, because she thought herself too good
for mortal men. Her rejected suitors complained that in practical terms
she had no business acting so choosy, in the first place because she was
an orphan, and in the second, because she was possessed by the demon
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of epilepsy, who would certainly put off any heavenly spirits who might
otherwise have been interested. Some embittered youths went so far as
to suggest that as Ayesha's defects would prevent her from ever finding
a husband she might as well start taking lovers, so as not to waste that
beauty, which ought in all fairness to have been given to a less
problematic individual. In spite of these attempts by the young men of
Titlipur to turn her into their whore, Ayesha remained chaste, her
defence being a look of such fierce concentration on patches of air
immediately above people's left shoulders that it was regularly
mistaken for contempt. Then people heard about her new habit of
swallowing butterflies and they revised their opinion of her, convinced
that she was touched in the head and therefore dangerous to lie with in
case the demons crossed over into her lovers. After this the lustful
males of her village left her alone in her hovel, alone with her toy
animals and her peculiar fluttering diet. One young man, however, took
to sitting a little distance from her doorway, facing discreetly in the
opposite direction, as if he were on guard, even though she no longer
had any need of protectors. He was a former untouchable from the
neighbouring village of Chatnapatna who had been converted to Islam
and taken the name of Osman. Ayesha never acknowledged Osman's
presence, nor did he ask for such acknowledgement. The leafy branches
of the village waved over their heads in the breeze.
The village of Titlipur had grown up in the shade of an immense ban
yan--tree, a single monarch that ruled, with its multiple roots, over an
area more than half a mile in diameter. By now the growth of tree into
village and village into tree had become so intricate that it was
impossible to differentiate between the two. Certain districts of the tree
had become well-known lovers' nooks; others were chicken runs. Some
of the poorer labourers had constructed rough-and-ready shelters in the
angles of stout branches, and actually lived inside the dense foliage.
There were branches that were used as pathways across the village, and
children's swings made out of the old tree's beards, and in places where
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the tree stooped low down towards the earth its leaves formed roofs for
many a hutment that seemed to hang from the greenery like the nest of
a weaver bird. When the village panchayat assembled, it sat on the
mightiest branch of all. The villagers had grown accustomed to
referring to the tree by the name of the village, and to the village simply
as "the tree". The banyan's non-human inhabitants -- honey ants,
squirrels, owls -- were accorded the respect due to fellow-citizens. Only
the butterflies were ignored, like hopes long since shown to be false.
It was a Muslim village, which was why the convert Osman had come
here with his clown's outfit and his "boom-boom" bullock after he had
embraced the faith in an act of desperation, hoping that changing to a
Muslim name would do him more good than earlier re-namings, for
example when untouchables were renamed "children of God". As a child
of God in Chatnapatna he had not been permitted to draw water from
the town well, because the touch of an outcaste would have polluted the
drinking water. . Landless and, like Ayesha, an orphan, Osman earned
his living as a clown. His bullock wore bright red paper cones over its
horns and much tinselly drapery over its nose and back. He went from
village to village performing an act, at marriages and other celebrations,
in which the bullock was his essential partner and foil, nodding in
answer to his questions, one nod for no, twice for yes.
"Isn't this a nice village we've come to?" Osman would ask.
Boom, the bullock disagreed.
"It isn't? Oh yes it is. Look: aren't the people good?"
Boom.
"What? Then it's a village full of sinners?"
Boom, boom.
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"Baapu-re! Then, will everybody go to hell?"
Boom, boom.
"But, bhaijan. Is there any hope for them?"
Boom, boom, the bullock offered salvation. Excitedly, Osman bent
down, placing his ear by the bullock's mouth. "Tell, quickly. What
should they do to be saved?" At this point the bullock plucked Osman's
cap off his head and carried it around the crowd, asking for money, and
Osman would nod, happily: Boom, boom.
Osman the convert and his boom-boom bullock were well liked in
Titlipur, but the young man only wanted the approval of one person,
and she would not give it. He had admitted to her that his conversion
to Islam had been largely tactical, "Just so I could get a drink, bibi,
what's a man to do?" She had been outraged by his confession,
informed him that he was no Muslim at all, his soul was in peril and he
could go back to Chatnapatna and die of thirst for all she cared. Her
face coloured, as she spoke, with an unaccountably strong
disappointment in him, and it was the vehemence of this
disappointment that gave him the optimism to remain squatting a
dozen paces from her home, day after day, but she continued to stalk
past him, nose in air, without so much as a good morning or hope-
you"re-well.
Once a week, the potato carts of Titlipur trundled down the rutted,
narrow, four-hour track to Chatnapatna, which stood at the point at
which the track met the grand trunk road. In Chatnapatna stood the
high, gleaming aluminium silos of the potato wholesalers, but this had
nothing to do with Ayesha's regular visits to the town. She would hitch
a ride on a potato cart, clutching a little sackcloth bundle, to take her
toys to market. Chatnapatna was known throughout the region for its
kiddies' knick-knacks, carved wooden toys and enamelled figurines.
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Osman and his bullock stood at the edge of the banyan-tree, watching
her bounce about on top of the potato sacks until she had diminished
to a dot.
In Chatnapatna she made her way to the premises of Sri Srinivas, owner
of the biggest toy factory in town. On its walls were the political graffiti
of the day: _Vote for Hand_. Or, more politely: _Please to vote for CP
(M)_. Above these exhortations was the proud announcement:
_Srinivas's Toy Univas. Our Moto: Sinceriety & Creativity_.
Srinivas was inside: a large jelly of a man, his head a hairless sun, a
fiftyish fellow whom a lifetime of selling toys had failed to sour. Ayesha
owed him her livelihood. He had been so taken with the artistry of her
whittling that he had agreed to buy as many as she could produce. But
in spite of his habitual bonhomie his expression darkened when Ayesha
undid her bundle to show him two dozen figures of a young man in a
clown hat, accompanied by a decorated bullock that could dip its
tinselled head. Understanding that Ayesha had forgiven Osman his
conversion, Sri Srinivas cried, "That man is a traitor to his birth, as you
well know. What kind of a person will change gods as easily as his
dhotis? God knows what got into you, daughter, but I don't want these
dolls." On the wall behind his desk hung a framed certificate which
read, in elaborately cur-- licued print: _This is to certify that MR SRI S.
SRINIVAS is an Expert on the Geological History of the Planet Earth,
having flown through Grand Canyon with SCENIC AIRLINES_. Srinivas
closed his eyes and folded his arms, an unlaughing Buddha with the
indisputable authority of one who had flown. "That boy is a devil," he
said with finality, and Ayesha folded the dolls into her piece of
sackcloth and turned to leave, without arguing. Srinivas's eyes flew
open. "Damn you," he shouted, "aren't you going to give me a hard
time? You think I don't know you need the money? Why you did such a
damn stupid thing? What are you going to do now? just go and make
some FP dolls, double quick, and I will buy at best rate plus, because I
am generous to a fault." Mr. Srinivas's personal invention was the
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Family Planning doll, a socially responsible variant of the old Russian-
doll notion. Inside a suited-and-booted Abba-doll was a demure, sari-
clad Amma, and inside her a daughter containing a son. Two children
are plenty: that was the message of the dolls. "Make quickly quickly,"
Srinivas called after the departing Ayesha. "FP dolls have high
turnover." Ayesha turned, and smiled. "Don't worry about me,
Srinivasji," she said, and left.
Ayesha the orphan was nineteen years old when she began her walk back
to Titlipur along the rutted potato track, but by the time she turned up
in her village some forty--eight hours later she had attained a kind of
agelessness, because her hair had turned as white as snow while her skin
had regained the luminous perfection of a new-born child's, and
although she was completely naked the butterflies had settled upon her
body in such thick swarms that she seemed to be wearing a dress of the
most delicate material in the universe. The clown Osman was practising
routines with the boom-boom bullock near the track, because even
though he had been worried sick by her extended absence, and had
spent the whole of the previous night searching for her, it was still
necessary to earn a living. When he laid eyes on her, that young man
who had never respected God because ofhaving been born untouchable
was filled with holy terror, and did not dare to approach the girl with
whom he was so helplessly in love.
She went into her hut and slept for a day and a night without waking
up. Then she went to see the village headman, Sarpanch Muhammad
Din, and informed him matter-of-factly that the Archangel Gibreel had
appeared to her in a vision and had lain down beside her to rest.
"Greatness has come among us," she informed the alarmed Sarpanch,
who had until then been more concerned with potato quotas than
transcendence. "Everything will be required of us, and everything will
be given to us also."
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In another part of the tree, the Sarpanch's wife Khadija was consoling a
weeping clown, who was finding it hard to accept that he had lost his
beloved Ayesha to a higher being, for when an archangel lies with a
woman she is lost to men forever. Khadija was old and forgetful and
frequently clumsy when she tried to be loving, and she gave Osman cold
comfort: "The sun always sets when there is fear of tigers," she quoted
the old saying: bad news always comes all at once.
Soon after the story of the miracle got out, the girl Ayesha was
summoned to the big house, and in the following days she spent long
hours closeted with the zamindar's wife, Begum Mishal Akhtar, whose
mother had also arrived on a visit, and fallen for the archangel's white-
haired wife.
The dreamer, dreaming, wants (but is unable) to protest: I never laid a
finger on her, what do you think this is, some kind of wet dream or
what? Damn me if I know from where that girl was getting her
information/inspiration. Not from this quarter, that's for sure.
This happened: she was walking back to her village, but then she
seemed to grow weary all of a sudden, and went off the path to lie in the
shade of a tamarind--tree and rest. The moment her eyes closed he was
there beside her, dreaming Gibreel in coat and hat, sweltering in the
heat. She looked at him but he couldn't say what she saw, wings maybe,
haloes, the works. Then he was lying there and finding he could not get
up, his limbs had become heavier than iron bars, it seemed as if his
body might be crushed by its own weight into the earth. When she
finished looking at him she nodded, gravely, as if he had spoken, and
then she took off her scrap of a sari and stretched out beside him, nude.
Then in the dream he fell asleep, out cold as if somebody pulled out the
plug, and when dreamed himself awake again she was standing in front
of him with that loose white hair and the butterflies clothing her:
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transformed. She was still nodding, with a rapt expression on her face,
receiving a message from somewhere that she called Gibreel. Then she
left him lying there and returned to the village to make her entrance.
So now I have a dream-wife, the dreamer becomes conscious enough to
think. What the hell to do with her? -- But it isn't up to him. Aycsha
and Mishal Akhtar are together in the big house.
Ever since his birthday Mirza Saeed had been full of passionate desires,
"as if life really does begin at forty", his wife marvelled. Their marriage
became so energetic that the servants had to change the bedsheets three
times per day. Mishal hoped secretly that this heightening of her
husband's libido would lead her to conceive, because she was of the
firm opinion that enthusiasm mattered, whatever doctors might say to
the contrary, and that the years of taking her temperature every
morning before getting out of bed, and then plotting the results on
graph paper in order to establish her pattern of ovulation, had actually
dissuaded the babies from being born, partly because it was difficult to
be properly ardent when science got into bed along with you, and
partly, too, in her view, because no self--respecting foetus would wish to
enter the womb of so mechanically programmed a mother; Mishal still
prayed for a child, although she no longer mentioned the fact to Saeed
so as to spare him the sense of having failed her in this respect. Eyes
shut, feigning sleep, she would call on God for a sign, and when Saeed
became so loving, so frequently, she wondered if maybe this might not
be it. As a result, his strange request that from now on, whenever they
came to stay at Periscan, she should adopt the "old ways" and retreat
into purdah, was not treated by her with the contempt it deserved. In
the city, where they kept a large and hospitable house, the zamindar
and his wife were known as one of the most "modern" and "go--go"
couples on the scene; they collected contemporary art and threw wild
parties and invited friends round for fumbles in the dark on sofas while
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watching soft-porno VCRs. So when Mirza Saeed said, "Would it not be
sort of delicious, Mishu, if we tailored our behaviour to fit this old
house," she should have laughed in his face. Instead she replied, "What
you like, Saeed," because he gave her to understand that it was a sort of
erotic game. He even hinted that his passion for her had become so
overwhelming that he might need to express it at any moment, and if
she were out in the open at the time it might embarrass the staff;
certainly her presence would make it impossible for him to concentrate
on any of his tasks, and besides, in the city, "we will still be completely
up-to-date". From this she understood that the city was full of
distractions for the Mirza, so that her chances of conceiving were
greatest right here in Titlipur. She resolved to stay put. This was when
she invited her mother to come and stay, because if she were to confine
herself to the zenana she would need company. Mrs. Qureishi arrived
wobbling with plump fury, determined to scold her son-in-law until he
gave up this purdah foolishness, but Mishal amazed her mother by
begging: "Please don't." Mrs. Qureishi, the wife of the state bank
director, was quite a sophisticate herself. "In fact, all your teenage,
Mishu, you were the grey goose and I was the hipster. I thought you
dragged yourself out of that ditch but I see he pushed you back in there
again." The financier's wife had always been of the opinion that her
son-in--law was a secret cheapskate, an opinion which had survived
intact in spite of being starved of any scrap of supporting evidence.
Ignoring her daughter's veto, she sought out Mirza Saeed in the formal
garden and launched into him, wobbling, as was her wont, for
emphasis. "What type of life are you living?" she demanded. "My
daughter is not for locking up, but for taking out! What is all your
fortune for, if you keep it also under lock and key? My son, unlock both
wallet and wife! Take her away, renew your love, on some enjoyable
_outing!_" Mirza Saeed opened his mouth, found no reply, shut it
again. Dazzled by her own oratory, which had given rise, quite on the
spur of the moment, to the idea of a holiday, Mrs. Qureishi warmed to
her theme. "Just get set, and go!" she urged. "Go, man, go! Go away
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with her, or will you lock her up until she goes away," -- here she jabbed
an ominous finger at the sky -- "_forever?_"
Guiltily, Mirza Saeed promised to consider the idea.
"What are you waiting for?" she cried in triumph. "You big softo? You ..
• you _Hamlet?_"
His mother-in-law's attack brought on one of the periodic bouts of self-
reproach which had been plaguing Mirza Saced ever since he persuaded
Mishal to take the veil. To console himself he settled down to read
Tagore's story _Ghare-Baire_ in which a zamindar persuades his wife to
come out of purdah, whereupon she takes up with a firebrand politico
involved in the "swadeshi" campaign, and the zamindar winds up dead.
The novel cheered him up momentarily, but then his suspicions
returned. Had he been sincere in the reasons he gave his wife, or was he
simply finding a way of leaving the coast clear for his pursuit of the
madonna of the butterflies, the epileptic, Ayesha? "Some coast," he
thought, remembering Mrs. Qureishi with her eyes of an accusative
hawk, "some clear." His mother-in-law's presence, he argued to himself,
was further proof of his bona fides. Had he not positively encouraged
Mishal to send for her, even though he knew perfectly well that the old
fatty couldn't stand him and would suspect him of every damn slyness
under the sun? "Would I have been so keen for her to come if I was
planning on hanky panky?" he asked himself. But the nagging inner
voices continued: "All this recent sexology, this renewed interest in
your lady wife, is simple transference. Really, you are longing for your
peasant floozy to come and flooze with you."
Guilt had the effect of making the zamindar feel entirely worthless. His
mother--in--law's insults came to seem, in his unhappiness, like the
literal truth. "Softo," she called him, and sitting in his study,
surrounded by bookcases in which worms were munching contentedly
upon priceless Sanskrit texts such as were not to be found even in the
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national archives, and also, less upliftingly, on the complete works of
Percy Westerman, G. A. Henty and Dornford Yates, Mirza Saeed
admitted, yes, spot on, I am soft. The house was seven generations old
and for seven generations the softening had been going on. He walked
down the corridor in which his ancestors hung in baleful, gilded
frames, and contemplated the mirror which he kept hanging in the last
space as a reminder that one day he, too, must step up on to this wall.
He was a man without sharp corners or rough edges; even his elbows
were covered by little pads of flesh. In the mirror he saw the thin
moustache, the weak chin, the lips stained by paan. Cheeks, nose,
forehead: all soft, soft, soft. "Who would see anything in a type like
me?" he cried, and when he realized that he had been so agitated that
he had spoken aloud he knew he must be in love, that he was sick as a
dog with love, and that the object of his affections was no longer his
loving wife.
"Then what a damn, shallow, tricksy and self-deceiving fellow I am," he
sighed to himself, "to change so much, so fast. I deserve to be finished
off without ceremony." But he was not the type to fall on his sword.
Instead, he strolled a while around the corridors of Peristan, and pretty
soon the house worked its magic and restored him to something like a
good mood once again.
The house: in spite of its faery name, it was a solid, rather prosy
building, rendered exotic only by being in the wrong country. It had
been built seven generations ago by a certain Perowne, an English
architect much favoured by the colonial authorities, whose only style
was that of the neo-classical English country house. In those days the
great zamindars were crazy for European architecture. Saeed's great--
great--great--great--grand-father had hired the fellow five minutes after
meeting him at the Viceroy's reception, to indicate publicly that not all
Indian Muslims had supported the action of the Meerut soldiers or
been in sympathy with the subsequent uprisings, no, not by any means;
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-- and then given him carte blanche; -- so here Peristan now stood, in
the middle of near-tropical potato fields and beside the great banyan-
tree, covered in bougainvillaea creeper, with snakes in the kitchens and
butterfly skeletons in the cupboards. Some said its name owed more to
the Englishman's than to anything more fanciful: it was a mere
contraction of _Perownistan_.
After seven generations it was at last beginning to look as if it belonged
in this landscape of bullock carts and palm-trees and high, clear, star--
heavy skies. Even the stained--glass window looking down on the
staircase of King Charles the Headless had been, in an indefinable
manner, naturalized. Very few of these old zamindar houses had
survived the egalitarian depredations of the present, and accordingly
there hung over Peristan something of the musty air of a museum, even
though -- or perhaps because -- Mirza Saeed took great pride in the old
place and had spent lavishly to keep it in trim. He slept under a high
canopy of worked and beaten brass in a ship-like bed that had been
occupied by three Viceroys. In the grand salon he liked to sit with
Mishal and Mrs. Qureishi in the unusual three-way love seat. At one end
of this room a colossal Shiraz carpet stood rolled up, on wooden blocks,
awaiting the glamorous reception which would merit its unfurling, and
which never came. In the dining-room there were stout classical
columns with ornate Corinthian tops, and there were peacocks, both
real and stone, strolling on the main steps to the house, and Venetian
chandeliers tinkling in the hail. The original punkahs were still in full
working order, all their operating cords travelling by way of pulleys and
holes in walls and floors to a little, airless boot-room where the
punkah-wallah sat and tugged the lot together, trapped in the irony of
the foetid air of that tiny windowless room while he despatched cool
breezes to all other parts of the house. The servants, too, went back
seven generations and had therefore lost the art of complaining. The
old ways ruled: even the Titlipur sweet-vendor was required to seek the
zamindar's approval before commencing to sell any innovative
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sweetmeat he might have invented. Life in Peristan was as soft as it was
hard under the tree; but, even into such cushioned existences, heavy
blows can fall.
The discovery that his wife was spending most of her time closeted with
Ayesha filled the Mirza with an insupportable irritation, an eczema of
the spirit that maddened him because there was no way of scratching it.
Mishal was hoping that the archangel, Ayesha's husband, would grant
her a baby, but because she couldn't tell that to her husband she grew
sullen and shrugged petulantly when he asked her why she wasted so
much time with the village's craziest girl. Mishal's new reticence
worsened the itch in Mirza Saeed's heart, and made him jealous, too,
although he wasn't sure if he was jealous of Ayesha, or Mishal. He
noticed for the first time that the mistress of the butterflies had eyes of
the same lustrous grey shade as his wife, and for some reason this made
him cross, too, as if it proved that the women were ganging up on him,
whispering God knew what secrets; maybe they were chittcring and
chattering about him! This zenana business seemed to have backfired;
even that old jelly Mrs. Qureishi had been taken in by Ayesha. Quite a
threesome, thought Mirza Saeed; when mumbo-jumbo gets in through
your door, good sense leaves by the window.
As for Ayesha: when she encountered the Mirza on the balcony, or in
the garden as he wandered reading Urdu love-poetry, she was invariably
deferential and shy; but her good behaviour, coupled with the total
absence of any spark of erotic interest, drove Saeed further and further
into the helplessness of his despair. So it was that when, one day, he
spied Ayesha entering his wife's quarters and heard, a few minutes later,
his mother--in-- law's voice rise in a melodramatic shriek, he was seized
by a mood of mulish vengefulness and deliberately waited a full three
minutes before going to investigate. He found Mrs. Qureishi tearing her
hair and sobbing like a movie queen, while Mishal and Ayesha sat cross-
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legged on the bed, facing each other, grey eyes staring into grey, and
Mishal's face was cradled between Ayesha's outstretched palms.
It turned out that the archangel had informed Ayesha that the
zamindar's wife was dying of cancer, that her breasts were full of the
malign nodules of death, and that she had no more than a few months
to live. The location of the cancer had proved to Mishal the cruelty of
God, because only a vicious deity would place death in the breast of a
woman whose only dream was to suckle new life. When Saeed entered,
Ayesha had been whispering urgently to Mishal: "You mustn't think
that way. God will save you. This is a test of faith."
Mrs. Qureishi told Mirza Saeed the bad news with many shrieks and
howls, and for the confused zamindar it was the last straw. He flew into
a temper and started yelling loudly and trembling as if he might at any
moment start smashing up the furniture in the room and its occupants
as well.
"To hell with your spook cancer," he screamed at Ayesha in his
exasperation. "You have come into my house with your craziness and
angels and dripped poison into my family's ears. Get out of here with
your visions and your invisible spouse. This is the modern world, and it
is medical doctors and not ghosts in potato fields who tell us when we
are ill. You have created this bloody hullabaloo for nothing. Get out
and never come on to my land again."
Ayesha heard him out without removing her eyes or hands from Mishal.
When Saeed stopped for breath, clenching and unclenching his fists,
she said softly to his wife: "Everything will be required of us, and
everything will be given." When he heard this formula, which people all
over the village were beginning to parrot as if they knew what it meant,
Mirza Saeed Akhtar went briefly out of his mind, raised his hand and
knocked Ayesha senseless. She fell to the floor, bleeding from the
mouth, a tooth loosened by his fist, and as she lay there Mrs. Qureishi
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hurled abuse at her son-in-law. "O God, I have put my daughter in the
care of a killer. O God, a woman hitter. Go on, hit me also, get some
practice. Defiler of saints, blasphemer, devil, unclean." Saeed left the
room without saying a word.
The next day Mishal Akhtar insisted on returning to the city for a
complete medical check-up. Saeed took a stand. "If you want to indulge
in superstition, go, but don't expect me to come along. It's eight hours'
drive each way; so, to hell with it." Mishal left that afternoon with her
mother and the driver, and as a result Mirza Saeed was not where he
should have been, that is, at his wife's side, when the results of the tests
were communicated to her: positive, inoperable, too far advanced, the
claws of the cancer dug in deeply throughout her chest. A few months,
six if she was lucky, and before that, coming soon, the pain. Mishal
returned to Peristan and went straight to her rooms in the zenana,
where she wrote her husband a formal note on lavender stationery,
telling him of the doctor's diagnosis. When he read her death sentence,
written in her own hand, he wanted very badly to burst into tears, but
his eyes remained obstinately dry. He had had no time for the Supreme
Being for many years, but now a couple of Aycsha's phrases popped
back into his mind. _God will save you. Everything will be given_. A
bitter, superstitious notion occurred to him: "It is a curse," he thought.
"Because I lusted after Ayesha, she has murdered my wife."
When he went to the zenana, Mishal refused to see him, but her mother,
barring the doorway, handed Saeed a second note on scented blue
notepaper. "I want to see Ayesha," it read. "Kindly permit this." Bowing
his head, Mirza Saeed gave his assent, and crept away in shame.
With Mahound, there is always a struggle; with the Imam, slavery; but
with this girl, there is nothing. Gibreel is inert, usually asleep in the
dream as he is in life. She comes upon him under a tree, or in a ditch,
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hears what he isn't saying, takes what she needs, and leaves. What does
he know about cancer, for example? Not a solitary thing.
All around him, he thinks as he half--dreams, half-wakes, are people
hearing voices, being seduced by words. But not his; never his original
material. -- Then whose? Who is whispering in their ears, enabling them
to move mountains, halt clocks, diagnose disease?
He can't work it out.
The day after Mishal Akhtar's return to Titlipur, the girl Ayesha, whom
people were beginning to call a kahin, a pir, disappeared completely for
a week. Her hapless admirer, Osman the clown, who had been following
her at a distance along the dusty potato track to Chatnapatna, told the
villagers that a breeze got up and blew dust into his eyes; when he got it
out again she had "just gone". Usually, when Osman and his bullock
started telling their tall tales about djinnis and magic lamps and open--
sesames, the villagers looked tolerant and teased him, okay, Osman,
save it for those idiots in Chatnapatna; they may fall for that stuff but
here in Titlipur we know which way is up and that palaces do not
appear unless a thousand and one labourers build them, nor do they
disappear unless the same workers knock them down. On this occasion,
however, nobody laughed at the clown, because where Ayesha was
concerned the villagers were willing to believe anything. They had
grown convinced that the snow-haired girl was the true successor to old
Bibiji, because had the butterflies not reappeared in the year of her
birth, and did they not follow her around like a cloak? Ayesha was the
vindication of the longsoured hope engendered by the butterflies'
return, and the evidence that great things were still possible in this life,
even for the weakest and poorest in the land.
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"The angel has taken her away," marvelled the Sarpanch's wife Khadija,
and Osman burst into tears. "But no, it is a wonderful thing," old
Khadija uncomprehendingly explained. The villagers teased the
Sarpanch: "How you got to be village headman with such a tactless
spouse, beats us."
"You chose me," he dourly replied.
On the seventh day after her disappearance Ayesha was sighted walking
towards the village, naked again and dressed in golden butterflies, her
silver hair streaming behind her in the breeze. She went directly to the
home of Sarpanch Muhammad Din and asked that the Titlipur
panchayat be convened for an immediate emergency meeting. "The
greatest event in the history of the tree has come upon us," she
confided. Muhammad Din, unable to refuse her, fixed the time of the
meeting for that evening, after dark.
That night the panchayat members took their places on the usual
branch of the tree, while Ayesha the kahin stood before them on the
ground. "I have flown with the angel into the highest heights," she said.
"Yes, even to the lote--tree of the uttermost end. The archangel, Gibreel:
he has brought us a message which is also a command. Everything is
required of us, and everything will be given."
Nothing in the life of the Sarpanch Muhammad Din had prepared him
for the choice he was about to face. "What does the angel ask, Ayesha,
daughter?" he asked, fighting to steady his voice.
"It is the angel's will that all of us, every man, and woman and child in
the village, begin at once to prepare for a pilgrimage. We are
commanded to walk from this place to Mecca Sharif, to kiss the Black
Stone in the Ka"aba at the centre of the Haram Sharif, the sacred
mosque. There we must surely go."
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Now the panchayat's quintet began to debate heatedly. There were the
crops to consider, and the impossibility of abandoning their homes en
masse. "It is not to be conceived of, child," the Sarpanch told her. "It is
well known that Allah excuses haj and umra to those who are genuinely
unable to go for reasons of poverty or health." But Ayesha remained
silent and the elders continued to argue. Then it was as if her silence
infected everyone else and for a long moment, in which the question
was settled -- although by what means nobody ever managed to
comprehend -- there were no words spoken at all.
It was Osman the clown who spoke up at last, Osman the convert, for
whom his new faith had been no more than a drink of water. "It's
almost two hundred miles from here to the sea," he cried. "There are
old ladies here, and babies. However can we go?"
"God will give us the strength," Ayesha serenely replied.
"Hasn't it occurred to you," Osman shouted, refusing to give up, "that
there's a mighty ocean between us and Mecca Sharif? How will we ever
cross? We have no money for the pilgrim boats. Maybe the angel will
grow us wings, so we can fly?"
Many villagers rounded angrily upon the blasphemer Osman. "Be quiet
now," Sarpanch Muhammad Din rebuked him. "You haven't been long
in our faith or our village. Keep your trap shut and learn our ways."
Osman, however, answered cheekily, "So this is how you welcome new
settlers. Not as equals, but as people who must do as they are told." A
knot of red--faced men began to tighten around Osman, but before
anything else could happen the kahin Ayesha changed the mood
entirely by answering the clown's questions.
"This, too, the angel has explained," she said quietly. "We will walk two
hundred miles, and when we reach the shores of the sea, we will put our
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feet into the foam, and the waters will open for us. The waves shall be
parted, and we shall walk across the ocean-floor to Mecca."
The next morning Mirza Saced Akhtar awoke in a house that had fallen
unusually silent, and when he called for the servants there was no reply.
The stillness had spread into the potato fields, too; but under the
broad, spreading roof of the Titlipur tree all was hustle and bustle. The
panchayat had voted unanimously to obey the command of the
Archangel Gibreel, and the villagers had begun to prepare for departure.
At first the Sarpanch had wanted the carpenter Isa to construct litters
that could be pulled by oxen and on which the old and infirm could
ride, but that idea had been knocked on the head by his own wife, who
told him, "You don't listen, Sarpanch sahibji! Didn't the angel say we
must walk? Well then, that is what we must do." Only the youngest of
infants were to be excused the foot-pilgrimage, and they would be
carried (it had been decided) on the backs of all the adults, in rotation.
The villagers had pooled all their resources, and heaps of potatoes,
lentils, rice, bitter gourds, chillies, aubergines and other vegetables were
piling up next to the panchayat bough. The weight of the provisions
was to be evenly divided between the walkers. Cooking utensils, too,
were being gathered together, and whatever bedding could be found.
Beasts of burden were to be taken, and a couple of carts carrying live
chickens and such, but in general the pilgrims were under the
Sarpanch's instructions to keep personal belongings to a minimum.
Preparations had been under way since before dawn, so that by the time
an incensed Mirza Saeed strode into the village, things were well
advanced. For forty-five minutes the zamindar slowed things up by
making angry speeches and shaking individual villagers by the
shoulders, but then, fortunately, he gave up and left, so that the work
could be continued at its former, rapid pace. As the Mirza departed he
smacked his head repeatedly and called people names, such as _loonies,
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simpletons_, very bad words, but he had always been a godless man, the
weak end of a strong line, and he had to be left to find his own fate;
there was no arguing with men like him.
By sunset the villagers were ready to depart, and the Sarpanch told
everyone to rise for prayers in the small hours so that they could leave
immediately afterwards and thus avoid the worst heat of the day. That
night, lying down on his mat beside old Khadija, he murmured, "At
last. I've always wanted to see the Ka"aba, to circle it before I die." She
reached out from her mat to take his hand. "I, too, have hoped for it,
against hope," she said. "We'll walk through the waters together."
Mirza Saeed, driven into an impotent frenzy by the spectacle of the
packing village, burst in on his wife without ceremony. "You should see
what's going on, Mishu," he exclaimed, gesticulating absurdly. "The
whole of Titlipur has taken leave of its brains, and is off to the seaside.
What is to happen to their homes, their fields? There is ruination in
store. Must be political agitators involved. Someone has been bribing
someone. -- Do you think if I offered cash they would stay here like sane
persons?" His voice dried. Ayesha was in the room.
"You bitch," he cursed her. She was sitting cross--legged on the bed
while Mishal and her mother squatted on the floor, sorting through
their belongings and working out how little they could manage with on
the pilgrimage.
"You're not going," Mirza Saeed ranted."! forbid it, the devil alone
knows what germ this whore has infected the villagers with, but you are
my wife and I refuse to let you embark upon this suicidal venture."
"Good words," Mishal laughed bitterly. "Saeed, good choice of words.
You know I can't live but you talk about suicide. Saeed, a thing is
happening here, and you with your imported European atheism don't
250
know what it is. Or maybe you would if you looked beneath your
English suitings and tried to locate your heart."
"It's incredible," Saeed cried. "Mishal, Mishu, is this you? All of a
sudden you've turned into this God-bothered type from ancient
history?"
Mrs. Qureishi said, "Go away, son. No room for unbelievers here. The
angel has told Ayesha that when Mishal completes the pilgrimage to
Mecca her cancer will have disappeared. Everything is required and
everything will be given."
Mirza Saeed Akhtar put his palms against a wall of his wife's bedroom
and pressed his forehead against the plaster. After a long pause he said:
"If it is a question of performing umra then for God's sake let's go to
town and catch a plane. We can be in Mecca within a couple of days."
Mishal answered, "We are commanded to walk."
Saeed lost control of himself. "Mishal? Mishal?" he shrieked.
"Commanded? Archangels, Mishu? _Gibreel?_ God with a long beard
and angels with wings? Heaven and hell, Mishal? The Devil with a
pointy tail and cloven hoofs? How far are you going with this? Do
women have souls, what do you say? Or the other way: do souls have
gender? Is God black or white? When the waters of the ocean part,
where will the extra water go? Will it stand up sideways like walls?
Mishal? Answer me. Are there miracles? Do you believe in Paradise? Will
I be forgiven my sins?" He began to cry, and fell on to his knees, with
his forehead still pressed against the wall. His dying wife came up and
embraced him from behind. "Go with the pilgrimage, then," he said,
dully. "But at least take the Mercedes station wagon. It's got air-
conditioning and you can take the icebox full of Cokes."
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"No," she said, gently. "We'll go like everybody else. We're pilgrims,
Saeed. This isn't a picnic at the beach."
"I don't know what to do," Mirza Saeed Akhtar wept. "Mishu, I can't
handle this by myself."
Aycsha spoke from the bed. "Mirza sahib, come with us," she said.
"Your ideas are finished with. Come and save your soul."
Saeed stood up, red-eyed. "A bloody outing you wanted," he said
viciously to Mrs. Qureishi. "That chicken certainly came home to roost.
Your outing will finish off the lot of us, seven generations, the whole
bang shoot."
Mishal leaned her cheek against his back. "Come with us, Saeed. Just
come."
He turned to face Ayesha. "There is no God," he said firmly.
"There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His Prophet," she replied.
"The mystical experience is a subjective, not an objective truth," he
went on. "The waters will not open."
"The sea will part at the angel's command," Ayesha answered.
"You are leading these people into certain disaster."
"I am taking them into the bosom of God."
"I don't believe in you," Mirza Saeed insisted. "But I'm going to come,
and will try to end this insanity with every step I take."
"God chooses many means," Ayesha rejoiced, "many roads by which the
doubtful may be brought into his certainty."
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"Go to hell," shouted Mirza Saeed Akhtar, and ran, scattering
butterflies, from the room.
"Who is the madder," Osman the clown whispered into his bullock's ear
as he groomed it in its small byre, "the madwoman, or the fool who
loves the madwoman?" The bullock didn't reply. "Maybe we should
have stayed untouchable," Osman continued. "A compulsory ocean
sounds worse than a forbidden well." And the bullock nodded, twice for
yes, boom, boom.
V. A City Visible but Unseen
"_Once I'm an owl, what is the spell or antidote for turning me back
into myself?_" Mr. Muhammad Sufyan, prop. Shaandaar Cafe and
landlord of the rooming-house above, mentor to the variegated,
transient and particoloured inhabitants of both, seen-it-all type, least
doctrinaire of hajis and most unashamed of V C R addicts, ex-
schoolteacher, self-taught in classical texts of many cultures, dismissed
from post in Dhaka owing to cultural differences with certain generals
in the old days when Bangladesh was merely an East Wing, and
therefore, in his own words, "not so much an immig as an emig runt" --
this last a good-natured allusion to his lack of inches, for though he
was a wide man, thick of arm and waist, he stood no more than sixtyone
inches off the ground, blinked in his bedroom doorway, awakened by
Jumpy Joshi's urgent midnight knock, polished his half--rimmed
spectacles on the edge of Bengali-style kurta (drawstrings tied at the
neck in a neat bow), squeezed lids tightly shut open shut over myopic
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eyes, replaced glasses, opened eyes, stroked moustacheless hennaed
beard, sucked teeth, and responded to the now-indisputable horns on
the brow of the shivering fellow whom Jumpy, like the cat, appeared to
have dragged in, with the above impromptu quip, stolen, with
commendable mental alacrity for one aroused from his slumbers, from
Lucius Apuleius of Madaura, Moroccan priest, AD 120--180 approx.,
colonial of an earlier Empire, a person who denied the accusation of
having bewitched a rich widow yet confessed, somewhat perversely, that
at an early stage in his career he had been transformed, by witchcraft,
into (not an owl, but) an ass. "Yes, yes," Sufyan continued, stepping out
into the passage and blowing a white mist of winter breath into his
cupped hands, "Poor misfortunate, but no point wallowing.
Constructive attitude must be adopted. I will wake my wife."
Chamcha was beard-fuzz and grime. He wore a blanket like a toga below
which there protruded the comic deformity of goats' hoofs, while above
it could be seen the sad comedy of a sheepskin jacket borrowed from
Jumpy, its collar turned up, so that sheepish curls nestled only inches
from pointy billy-goat horns. He seemed incapable of speech, sluggish
of body, dull of eye; even though Jumpy attempted to encourage him --
"There, you see, we'll have this well sorted in a flash" -- he, Saladin,
remained the most limp and passive of -- what? -- let us say: satyrs.
Sufyan, meanwhile, offered further Apuleian sympathy. "In the case of
the ass, reverse metamorphosis required personal intervention of
goddess Isis," he beamed. "But old times are for old fogies. In your
instance, young mister, first step would possibly be a bowl of good hot
soup."
At this point his kindly tones were quite drowned by the intervention of
a second voice, raised high in operatic terror; moments after which, his
small form was being jostled and shoved by the mountainous, fleshy
figure of a woman, who seemed unable to decide whether to push him
out of her way or keep him before her as a protective shield. Crouching
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behind Sufyan, this new being extended a trembling arm at whose end
was a quivering, pudgy, scarlet-nailed index finger. "That over there,"
she howled. "What thing is come upon us?"
"It is a friend of Joshi's," Sufyan said mildly, and continued, turning to
Chamcha, "Please forgive, -- the unexpectedness et cet, isn't it? --
Anyhow, may I present my Mrs; -- my Begum Sahiba, -- Hind."
"What friend? How friend?" the croucher cried. "Ya Allah, eyes aren't
next to your nose?"
The passageway, -- bare-board floor, torn floral paper on the walls, --
was starting to fill up with sleepy residents. Prominent among whom
were two teenage girls, one spike-haired, the other pony-tailed, and
both relishing the opportunity to demonstrate their skills (learned
from Jumpy) in the martial arts of karate and Wing Chun: Sufyan's
daughters, Mishal (seventeen) and fifteenyear-old Anahita, leapt from
their bedroom in fighting gear, Bruce Lee pajamas worn loosely over T-
shirts bearing the image of the new Madonna; -- caught sight of
unhappy Saladin; -- and shook their heads in wide-eyed delight.
"Radical," said Mishal, approvingly. And her sister nodded assent:
"Crucial. Fucking A." Her mother did not, however, reproach her for
her language; Hind's mind was elsewhere, and she wailed louder than
ever: "Look at this husband of mine. What sort of haji is this? Here is
Shaitan himself walking in through our door, and I am made to offer
him hot chicken yakhni, cooked by my own right hand."
Useless, now, forjumpyjoshi to plead with Hind for tolerance, to
attempt explanations and demand solidarity. "If he's not the devil on
earth," the heaving-chested lady pointed out unanswerably, "from
where that plague-breath comes that he's breathing? From, maybe, the
Perfumed Garden?"
255
"Not Gulistan, but Bostan," said Chamcha, suddenly. "AI Flight 420."
On hearing his voice, however, Hind squealed frightfully, and plunged
past him, heading for the kitchen.
"Mister," Mishal said to Saladin as her mother fled downstairs, "anyone
who scares her that way has got to be seriously _bad_."
"Wicked," Anahita agreed. "Welcome aboard."
This Hind, now so firmly entrenched in exclamatory mode, had once
been -- strangebuttrue! -- the most blushing of brides, the soul of
gentleness, the very incarnation of tolerant good humour. As the wife of
the erudite schoolteacher of Dhaka, she had entered into her duties
with a will, the perfect helpmeet, bringing her husband cardamom-
scented tea when he stayed up late marking examination papers,
ingratiating herself with the school principal at the termly Staff
Families Outing, struggling with the novels of Bibhutibhushan Banerji
and the metaphysics of Tagore in an attempt to be more worthy of a
spouse who could quote effortlessly from Rig--Veda as well as Quran-
Sharif, from the military accounts of Julius Caesar as well as the
Revelations of St John the Divine. In those days she had admired his
pluralistic openness of mind, and struggled, in her kitchen, towards a
parallel eclecticism, learning to cook the dosas and uttapams of South
India as well as the soft meatballs of Kashmir. Gradually her espousal
of the cause of gastronomic pluralism grew into a grand passion, and
while secularist Sufyan swallowed the multiple cultures of the
subcontinent -- "and let us not pretend that Western culture is not
present; after these centuries, how could it not also be part of our
heritage?" -- his wife cooked, and ate in increasing quantities, its food.
As she devoured the highly spiced dishes of Hyderabad and the high-
faluting yoghurt sauces of Lucknow her body began to alter, because all
that food had to find a home somewhere, and she began to resemble the
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wide rolling land mass itself, the subcontinent without frontiers,
because food passes across any boundary you care to mention.
Mr. Muhammad Sufyan, however, gained no weight: not a _tola_, not an
_ounce_.
His refusal to fatten was the beginning of the trouble. When she
reproached him -- "You don't like my cooking? For whom I'm doing it
all and blowing up like a balloon?" -- he answered, mildly, looking up at
her (she was the taller of the two) over the top of half-rimmed specs:
"Restraint is also part of our traditions, Begum. Eating two mouthfuls
less than one's hunger: self-denial, the ascetic path." What a man: all
the answers, but you couldn't get him to give you a decent fight.
Restraint was not for Hind. Maybe, if Sufyan had ever complained; if
just once he'd said, _I thought I was marrying one woman but these
days you're big enough for two_; if he'd ever given her the incentive! --
then maybe she'd have desisted, why not, of course she would; so it was
his fault, for having no aggression, what kind of a male was it who
didn't know how to insult his fat lady wife? -- In truth, it was entirely
possible that Hind would have failed to control her eating binges even
if Sufyan had come up with the required imprecations and entreaties;
but, since he did not, she munched on, content to dump the whole
blame for her figure on him.
As a matter of fact, once she had started blaming him for things, she
found that there were a number of other matters she could hold against
him; and found, too, her tongue, so that the schoolteacher's humble
apartment resounded regularly to the kinds of tickings-off he was too
much of a mouse to hand out to his pupils. Above all, he was berated
for his excessively high principles, thanks to which, Hind told him, she
knew he would never permit her to become a rich man's wife; -- for
what could one say about a man who, finding that his bank had
inadvertently credited his salary to his account twice in the same
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month, promptly _drew the institution's notice_ to the error and
handed back the cash?; -- what hope was there for a teacher who, when
approached by the wealthiest of the schoolchildren's parents, flatly
refused to contemplate accepting the usual remunerations in return for
services rendered when marking the little fellows' examination papers?
"But all of that I could forgive," she would mutter darkly at him,
leaving unspoken the rest of the sentence, which was _if it hadn't been
for your two real offences: your sexual, and political, crimes_.
Ever since their marriage, the two of them had performed the sexual act
infrequently, in total darkness, pin-drop silence and almost complete
immobility. It would not have occurred to Hind to wiggle or wobble,
and since Sufyan appeared to get through it all with an absolute
minimum of motion, she took it -- had always taken it -- that the two of
them were of the same mind on this matter, viz., that it was a dirty
business, not to be discussed before or after, and not to be drawn
attention to during, either. That the children took their time in coming
she took as God's punishment for He only knew what misdeeds of her
earlier life; that they both turned out to be girls she refused to blame
on Allah, preferring, instead, to blame the weakling seed implanted in
her by her unmanly spouse, an attitude she did not refrain from
expressing, with great emphasis, and to the horror of the midwife, at
the very moment of little Anahita's birth. "Another girl," she gasped in
disgust. "Well, considering who made the baby, I should think myself
lucky it's not a cockroach, or a mouse." After this second daughter she
told Sufyan that enough was enough, and ordered him to move his bed
into the hail. He accepted without any argument her refusal to have
more children; but then she discovered that the lecher thought he could
still, from time to time, enter her darkened room and enact that strange
rite of silence and near-motionlessness to which she had only submitted
in the name of reproduction. "What do you think," she shouted at him
the first time he tried it, "I do this thing for fun?"
258
Once he had got it through his thick skull that she meant business, no
more hanky-panky, no sir, she was a decent woman, not a lust--crazed
libertine, he began to stay out late at night. It was during this period --
she had thought, mistakenly, that he was visiting prostitutes -- that he
became involved with politics, and not just any old politics, either, oh
no, Mister Brainbox had to go and join the devils themselves, the
Communist Party, no less, so much for those principles of his; demons,
that's what they were, worse by far than whores. It was because of this
dabbling in the occult that she had to pack up her bags at such short
notice and leave for England with two small babies in tow; because of
this ideological witchcraft that she had had to endure all the privations
and humiliations of the process of immigration; and on account of this
diabolism of his that she was stuck forever in this England and would
never see her village again. "England," she once said to him, "is your
revenge upon me for preventing you from performing your obscene acts
upon my body." He had not given an answer; and silence denotes assent.
And what was it that made them a living in this Vilayet of her exile, this
Yuke of her sex-obsessed husband's vindictiveness? What? His book
learning? His _Gitanjali_, _Eclogues_, or that play _Othello_ that he
explained was really Attallah or Attaullah except the writer couldn't
spell, what sort of writer was that, anyway?
It was: her cooking. "Shaandaar," it was praised. "Outstanding,
brilliant, delicious." People came from all over London to eat her
samosas, her Bombay chaat, her gulab jamans straight from Paradise.
What was there for Sufyan to do? Take the money, serve the tea, run
from here to there, behave like a servant for all his education. O, yes, of
course the customers liked his personality, he always had an appealing
character, but when you're running an eatery it isn't the conversation
they pay for on the bill. Jalebis, barfi, Special of the Day. How life had
turned out! She was the mistress now.
Victory!
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And yet it was also a fact that she, cook and breadwinner, chiefest
architect of the success of the Shaandaar Cafe, which had finally
enabled them to buy the whole four-storey building and start renting
out its rooms, -- _she_ was the one around whom there hung, like bad
breath, the miasma of defeat. While Sufyan twinkled on, she looked
extinguished, like a lightbulb with a broken filament, like a fizzled star,
like a flame. -- Why? -- Why, when Sufyan, who had been deprived of
vocation, pupils and respect, bounded about like a young lamb, and
even began to put on weight, fattening up in Proper London as he had
never done back home; why, when power had been removed from his
hands and delivered into hers, did she act -- as her husband put it -- the
"sad sack", the "glum chum" and the "moochy pooch"? Simple: not in
spite of, but on account of. Everything she valued had been upset by the
change; had in this process of translation, been lost.
Her language: obliged, now, to emit these alien sounds that made her
tongue feel tired, was she not entitled to moan? Her familiar place:
what matter that they had lived, in Dhaka, in a teacher's humble flat,
and now, owing to entrepreneurial good sense, savings and skill with
spices, occupied this four--storey terraced house? Where now was the
city she knew? Where the village of her youth and the green waterways
of home? The customs around which she had built her life were lost,
too, or at least were hard to find. Nobody in this Vilayet had time for
the slow courtesies of life back home, or for the many observances of
faith. Furthermore: was she not forced to put up with a husband of no
account, whereas before she could bask in his dignified position? Where
was the pride in being made to work for her living, for his living,
whereas before she could sit at home in much-befitting pomp? -- And
she knew, how could she not, the sadness beneath his bonhomie, and
that, too, was a defeat; never before had she felt so inadequate as a wife,
for what kind of a Mrs. is it that cannot cheer up her man, but must
observe the counterfeit of happiness and make do, as if it were the
genuine McCoy? -- Plus also: they had come into a demon city in which
260
anything could happen, your windows shattered in the middle of the
night without any cause, you were knocked over in the street by
invisible hands, in the shops you heard such abuse you felt like your
ears would drop off but when you turned in the direction of the words
you saw only empty air and smiling faces, and every day you heard
about this boy, that girl, beaten up by ghosts. -- Yes, a land of phantom
imps, how to explain; best thing was to stay home, not go out for so
much as to post a letter, stay in, lock the door, say your prayers, and the
goblins would (maybe) stay away. -- Reasons for defeat? Baba, who
could count them? Not only was she a shopkeeper's wife and a kitchen
slave, but even her own people could not be relied on; -- there were men
she thought of as respectable types, sharif, giving telephone divorces to
wives back home and running off with some haramzadi female, and
girls killed for dowry (some things could be brought through the
foreign customs without duty); -- and worst of all, the poison of this
devil-island had infected her baby girls, who were growing up refusing
to speak their mothertongue, even though they understood every word,
they did it just to hurt; and why else had Mishal cut off all her hair and
put rainbows into it; and every day it was fight, quarrel, disobey, -- and
worst of all, there was not one new thing about her complaints, this is
how it was for women like her, so now she was no longer just one, just
herself, just Hind wife of teacher Sufyan; she had sunk into the
anonymity, the characterless plurality, of being merely one-of-the-
women--like-her. This was history's lesson: nothing for women-like-her
to do but suffer, remember, and die.
What she did: to deny her husband's weakness, she treated him, for the
most part, like a lord, like a monarch, for in her lost world her glory
had lain in his; to deny the ghosts outside the cafe, she stayed indoors,
sending others out for kitchen provisions and household necessities,
and also for the endless supply of Bengali and Hindi movies on VCR
through which (along with her ever-increasing hoard of Indian movie
magazines) she could stay in touch with events in the "real world", such
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as the bizarre disappearance of the incomparable Gibreel Farishta and
the subsequent tragic announcement of his death in an airline accident;
and to give her feelings of defeated, exhausted despair some outlet, she
shouted at her daughters. The elder of whom, to get her own back,
hacked off her hair and permitted her nipples to poke through shirts
worn provocatively tight.
The arrival of a fully developed devil, a horned goat-man, was, in the
light of the foregoing, something very like the last, or at any rate the
penultimate, straw.
Shaandaar residents gathered in the night--kitchen for an impromptu
crisis summit. While Hind hurled imprecations into chicken soup,
Sufyan placed Chamcha at a table, drawing up, for the poor fellow's
use, an aluminium chair with a blue plastic seat, and initiated the
night's proceedings. The theories of Lamarck, I am pleased to report,
were quoted by the exiled schoolteacher, who spoke in his best didactic
voice. When Jumpy had recounted the unlikely story of Chamcha's fall
from the sky -- the protagonist himself being too immersed in chicken
soup and misery to speak for himself-- Sufyan, sucking teeth, made
reference to the last edition of _The Origin of Species_. "In which even
great Charles accepted the notion of mutation in extremis, to ensure
survival of species; so what if his followers -- always more Darwinian
than man himselfl -- repudiated, posthumously, such Lamarckian
heresy, insisting on natural selection and nothing but, -- however, I am
bound to admit, such theory is not extended to survival of individual
specimen but only to species as a whole; -- in addition, regarding nature
of mutation, problem is to comprehend actual utility of the change."
"Da-ad," Anahita Sufyan, eyes lifting to heaven, cheek lying ho-hum
against palm, interrupted these cogitations. "Give over. Point is, how'd
he turn into such a, such a," -- admiringly -- "freak?"
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Upon which, the devil himself, looking up from chicken soup, cried out,
"No, I'm not. I'm not a freak, O no, certainly I am not." His voice,
seeming to rise from an unfathomable abyss of grief, touched and
alarmed the younger girl, who rushed over to where he sat, and,
impetuously caressing a shoulder of the unhappy beast, said, in an
attempt to make amends: "Of course you aren't, I'm sorry, of course I
don't think you're a freak; it's just that you look like one."
Saladin Chamcha burst into tears.
Mrs. Sufyan, meanwhile, had been horrified by the sight of her younger
daughter actually laying hands on the creature, and turning to the
gallery of nightgowned residents she waved a soup-ladle at them and
pleaded for support. "How to tolerate? -- Honour, safety of young girls
cannot be assured. -- That in my own house, such a thing. ..!"
Mishal Sufyan lost patience. "Jesus, Mum."
"_Jesus?_"
"Dju think it's temporary?" Mishal, turning her back on scandalized
Hind, inquired of Sufyan and Jumpy. "Some sort of possession thing --
could we maybe get it you know _exorcized?_" Omens, shinings,
ghoulies, nightmares on Elm Street, stood excitedly in her eyes, and her
father, as much the VCR aficionado as any teenager, appeared to
consider the possibility seriously. "In _Der Steppenwolf_," he began,
but Jumpy wasn't having any more of that. "The central requirement,"
he announced, "is to take an ideological view of the situation."
That silenced everyone.
"Objectively," he said, with a small self—deprecating smile, "what has
happened here? A: Wrongful arrest, intimidation, violence. Two: Illegal
detention, unknown medical experimentation in hospital," -- murmurs
of assent here, as memories of intra-vaginal inspections, Depo-Provera
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scandals, unauthorized post-partum sterilizations, and, further back,
the knowledge of Third World drug-dumping arose in every person
present to give substance to the speaker's insinuations, -- because what
you believe depends on what you've seen, -- not only what is visible, but
what you are prepared to look in the face, -- and anyhow, something
had to explain horns and hoofs; in those policed medical wards,
anything could happen -- "And thirdly," Jumpy continued,
"psychological breakdown, loss of sense of self, inability to cope. We've
seen it all before."
Nobody argued, not even Hind; there were some truths from which it
was impossible to dissent. "Ideologically," Jumpy said, "I refuse to
accept the position of victim. Certainly, he has been victim _ized_, but
we know that all abuse of power is in part the responsibility of the
abused; our passiveness colludes with, permits such crimes."
Whereupon, having scolded the gathering into shamefaced submission,
he requested Sufyan to make available the small attic room that was
presently unoccupied, and Sufyan, in his turn, was rendered entirely
unable, by feelings of solidarity and guilt, to ask for a single p in rent.
Hind did, it is true, mumble: "Now I know the world is mad, when a
devil becomes my house guest," but she did so under her breath, and
nobody except her elder daughter Mishal heard what she said.
Sufyan, taking his cue from his younger daughter, went up to where
Chamcha, huddled in his blanket, was drinking enormous quantities of
Hind's unrivalled chicken yakhni, squatted down, and placed an arm
around the still-shivering unfortunate. "Best place for you is here," he
said, speaking as if to a simpleton or small child. "Where else would
you go to heal your disfigurements and recover your normal health?
Where else but here, with us, among your own people, your own kind?"
Only when Saladin Chamcha was alone in the attic room at the very end
of his strength did he answer Sufyan's rhetorical question. "I'm not
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your kind," he said distinctly into the night. "You're not my people.
I've spent half my life trying to get away from you."
His heart began to misbehave, to kick and stumble as if it, too, wanted
to metamorphose into some new, diabolic form, to substitute the
complex unpredictability of tabla improvisations for its old
metronomic beat. Lying sleepless in a narrow bed, snagging his horns in
bedsheets and pillowcases as he tossed and turned, he suffered the
renewal of coronary eccentricity with a kind of fatalistic acceptance: if
everything else, then why not this, too? Badoomboom, went the heart,
and his torso jerked. _Watch it or I'll really let you have it.
Doomboombadoom_. Yes: this was Hell, all right. The city of London,
transformed into Jahannum, Gehenna, Muspellheim.
Do devils suffer in Hell? Aren't they the ones with the pitchforks?
Water began to drip steadily through the dormer window. Outside, in
the treacherous city, a thaw had come, giving the streets the unreliable
consistency of wet cardboard. Slow masses of whiteness slid from
sloping, grey-slate roofs. The footprints of delivery vans corrugated the
slush. First light; and the dawn chorus began, chattering of road--drills,
chirrup of burglar alarms, trumpeting of wheeled creatures clashing at
corners, the deep whirr of a large olive--green garbage eater, screaming
radio--voices from a wooden painter's cradle clinging to the upper
storey of a Free House, roar of the great wakening juggernauts rushing
awesomely down this long but narrow pathway. From beneath the earth
came tremors denoting the passage of huge subterranean worms that
devoured and regurgitated human beings, and from the skies the thrum
of choppers and the screech of higher, gleaming birds.
The sun rose, unwrapping the misty city like a gift. Saladin Chamcha
slept.
265
Which afforded him no respite: but returned him, rather, to that other
night-street down which, in the company of the physiotherapist
Hyacinth Phillips, he had fled towards his destiny, clip-clop, on
unsteady hoofs; and reminded him that, as captivity receded and the
city drew nearer, Hyacinth's face and body had seemed to change. He
saw the gap opening and widening between her central upper incisors,
and the way her hair knotted and plaited itself into medusas, and the
strange triangularity of her profile, which sloped outwards from her
hairline to the tip of her nose, swung about and headed in an unbroken
line inwards to her neck. He saw in the yellow light that her skin was
growing darker by the minute, and her teeth more prominent, and her
body as long as a child's stick-figure drawing. At the same time she was
casting him glances of an ever more explicit lechery, and grasping his
hand in fingers so bony and inescapable that it was as though a
skeleton had seized him and was trying to drag him down into a grave;
he could smell the freshly dug earth, the cloying scent of it, on her
breath, on her lips . . . revulsion seized him. How could he ever have
thought her attractive, even desired her, even gone so far as to
fantasize, while she straddled him and pummelled fluid from his lungs,
that they were lovers in the violent throes of sexual congress? . . . The
city thickened around them like a forest; the buildings twined together
and grew as matted as her hair. "No light can get in here," she
whispered to him. "It's black; all black." She made as if to lie down and
pull him towards her, towards the earth, but he shouted, "Quick, the
church," and plunged into an unprepossessing box-like building,
seeking more than one kind of sanctuary. Inside, however, the pews
were full of Hyacinths, young and old, Hyacinths wearing shapeless
blue two--piece suits, false pearls, and little pill--box hats decked out
with bits of gauze, Hyacinths wearing virginal white nightgowns, every
imaginable form of Hyacinth, all singing loudly, _Fix me, Jesus_; until
they saw Chamcha, quit their spir-- itualling, and commenced to bawl
in a most unspiritual manner, _Satan, the Goat, the Goat_, and
suchlike stuff. Now it became clear that the Hyacinth with whom he'd
266
entered was looking at him with new eyes, just the way he'd looked at
her in the street; that she, too, had started seeing something that made
her feel pretty sick; and when he saw the disgust on that hideously
pointy and clouded face he just let rip. "_Hubshees_," he cursed them
in, for some reason, his discarded mother-tongue. Troublemakers and
savages, he called them. "I feel sorry for you," he pronounced. "Every
morning you have to look at yourself in the mirror and see, staring
back, the darkness: the stain, the proof that you're the lowest of the
low." They rounded upon him then, that congregation of Hyacinths, his
own Hyacinth now lost among them, indistinguishable, no longer an
individual but a woman-likethem, and he was being beaten frightfully,
emitting a piteous bleating noise, running in circles, looking for a way
out; until he realized that his assailants' fear was greater than their
wrath, and he rose up to his full height, spread his arms, and screamed
devilsounds at them, sending them scurrying for cover, cowering behind
pews, as he strode bloody but unbowed from the battlefield.
Dreams put things in their own way; but Chamcha, coming briefly
awake as his heartbeat skipped into a new burst of syncopations, was
bitterly aware that the nightmare had not been so very far from the
truth; the spirit, at least, was right. -- That was the last of Hyacinth, he
thought, and faded away again. -- To find himself shivering in the hail
of his own home while, on a higher plane, Jumpy Joshi argued fiercely
with Pamela. _With my wife_.
And when dream-Pamela, echoing the real one word for word, had
rejected her husband a hundred and one times, _he doesn't exist, it,
such things are not so_, it was Jamshed the virtuous who, setting aside
love and desire, helped. Leaving behind a weeping Pamela -- _Don't you
dare bring that back here_, she shouted from the top floor -- from
Saladin's den -- Jumpy, wrapping Chamcha in sheepskin and blanket,
led enfeebled through the shadows to the Shaandaar Cafe, promising
with empty kindness: "It'll be all right. You'll see. It'll all be fine."
267
When Saladin Chamcha awoke, the memory of these words filled him
with a bitter anger. Where's Farishta, he found himself thinking. That
bastard: I bet he's doing okay. -- It was a thought to which he would
return, with extraordinary results; for the moment, however, he had
other fish to fry.
I am the incarnation of evil, he thought. He had to face it. However it
had happened, it could not be denied. I am _no longer myself_, or not
only. I am the embodiment of wrong, of whatwe--hate, of sin.
Why? Why me?
What evil had he done -- what vile thing could he, would he do?
For what was he -- he couldn't avoid the notion -- being punished? And,
come to that, by whom? (I held my tongue.)
Had he not pursued his own idea of _the good_, sought to become that
which he most admired, dedicated himself with a will bordering on
obsession to the conquest of Englishness? Had he not worked hard,
avoided trouble, striven to become new? Assiduity, fastidiousness,
moderation, restraint, self—reliance, probity, family life: what did these
add up to if not a moral code? Was it his fault that Pamela and he were
childless? Were genetics his responsibility? Could it be, in this inverted
age, that he was being victimized by -- the fates, he agreed with himself
to call the persecuting agency -- precisely _because of_ his pursuit of
"the good"? -- That nowadays such a pursuit was considered wrong-
headed, even evil? -- Then how cruel these fates were, to instigate his
rejection by the very world he had so determinedly courted; how
desolating, to be cast from the gates of the city one believed oneself to
have taken long ago! -- What mean small-mindedness was this, to cast
him back into the bosom of _his people_, from whom he'd felt so
distant for so long! -- Here thoughts of Zeeny Vakil welled up, and
guiltily, nervously, he forced them down again.
268
His heart kicked him violently, and he sat up, doubled over, gasped for
breath. _Calm down, or it's curtains. No place for such stressful
cogitations: not any more_. He took deep breaths; lay back; emptied his
mind. The traitor in his chest resumed normal service.
No more of that, Saladin Chamcha told himself firmly. No more of
thinking myself evil. Appearances deceive; the cover is not the best
guide to the book. Devil, Goat, Shaitan? Not I.
Not I: another.
Who?
Mishal and Anahita arrived with breakfast on a tray and excitement all
over their faces. Chamcha devoured cornflakes and Nescafe while the
girls, after a few moments of shyness, gabbled at him, simultaneously,
non--stop. "Well, you've set the place buzzing and no mistake." -- "You
haven't gone and changed back in the night or anything?" -- "Listen,
it's not a trick, is it? I mean, it's not make-up or something theatrical? -
- I mean, Jumpy says you're an actor, and I only thought, -- I mean,"
and here young Anahita dried up, because Chamcha, spewing
cornflakes, howled angrily: "Make--up? Theatrical? _Trick?_"
"No offence," Mishal said anxiously on her sister's behalf. "It's just
we've been thinking, know what I mean, and well it'd just be awful if
you weren't, but you are, "course you are, so that's all right," she
finished hastily as Chamcha glared at her again. -- "Thing is," Anahita
resumed, and then, faltering, "Mean to say, well, we just think it's
great." -- "You, she means," Mishal corrected. "We think you're, you
know." -- "Brilliant," Anahita said and dazzled the bewildered Chamcha
with a smile. "Magic. You know. _Extreme_."
"We didn't sleep all night," Mishal said. "We've got ideas."
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"What we reckoned," Anahita trembled with the thrill of it, "as you've
turned into, -- what you are, -- then maybe, well, probably, actually,
even if you haven't tried it out, it could be, you could..." And the older
girl finished the thought: "You could've developed -- you know --
_powers_."
"We thought, anyway," Anahita added, weakly, seeing the clouds
gathering on Chamcha's brow. And, backing towards the door, added:
"But we're probably wrong. -- Yeh. We're wrong all right. Enjoy your
meal." -- Mishal, before she fled, took a small bottle full of green fluid
out of a pocket of her red-andblack-check donkey jacket, put it on the
floor by the door, and delivered the following parting shot. "O, excuse
me, but Mum says, can you use this, it's mouthwash, for your breath."
That Mishal and Anahita should adore the disfiguration which he
loathed with all his heart convinced him that "his people" were as
crazily wrong-headed as he'd long suspected. That the two of them
should respond to his bitterness -- when, on his second attic morning,
they brought him a masala dosa instead of packet cereal complete with
toy silver spacemen, and he cried out, ungratefully: "Now I'm supposed
to eat this filthy foreign food?" -- with expressions of sympathy, made
matters even worse. "Sawful muck," Mishal agreed with him. "No
bangers in here, worse luck." Conscious of having insulted their
hospitality, he tried to explain that he thought of himself, nowadays,
as, well, British. . . "What about us?" Anahita wanted to know. "What
do you think we are?" -- And Mishal confided: "Bangladesh in't nothing
to me. Just some place Dad and Mum keep banging on about." -- And
Anahita, conclusively: "Bungleditch." -- With a satisfied nod. -- "What I
call it, anyhow."
But they weren't British, he wanted to tell them: not _really_, not in
any way he could recognize. And yet his old certainties were slipping
270
away by the moment, along with his old life. . . "Where's the
telephone?" he demanded. "I've got to make some calls."
It was in the hall; Anahita, raiding her savings, lent him the coins. His
head wrapped in a borrowed turban, his body concealed in borrowed
trousers (Jumpy"s) and Mishal's shoes, Chamcha dialled the past.
"Chamcha," said the voice of Mimi Mamoulian. "You're dead."
This happened while he was away: Mimi blacked out and lost her teeth.
"A whiteout is what it was," she told him, speaking more harshly than
usual because of difficulty with her jaw. "A reason why? Don't ask. Who
can ask for reason in these times? What's your number?" she added as
the pips went. "I'll call you right back." But it was a full five minutes
before she did. "I took a leak. You have a reason why you're alive? Why
the waters parted for you and the other guy but closed over the rest?
Don't tell me you were worthier. People don't buy that nowadays, not
even you, Chamcha. I was walking down Oxford Street looking for
crocodile shoes when it happened: out cold in mid-stride and I fell
forward like a tree, landed on the point of my chin and all the teeth fell
out on the sidewalk in front of the man doing findthe-lady. People can
be thoughtful, Chamcha. When I came to I found my teeth in a little
pile next to my face. I opened my eyes and saw the little bastards staring
at me, wasn't that nice? First thing I thought, thank God, I've got the
money. I had them stitched back in, privately of course, great job, better
than before. So I've been taking a break for a while. The voiceover
business is in bad shape, let me tell you, what with you dying and my
teeth, we just have no sense of responsibility. Standards have been
lowered, Chamcha. Turn on the TV, listen to radio, you should hear
how corny the pizza commercials, the beer ads with the Cherman
accents from Central Casting, the Martians eating potato powder and
sounding like they came from the Moon. They fired us from _The Aliens
Show_. Get well soon. Incidentally, you might say the same for me."
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So he had lost work as well as wife, home, a grip on life. "It's not just
the dentals that go wrong," Mimi powered on. "The fucking plosives
scare me stupid. I keep thinking I'll spray the old bones on the street
again. Age, Chamcha: it's all humiliations. You get born, you get beaten
up and bruised all over and finally you break and they shovel you into
an urn. Anyway, if I never work again I'll die comfortable. Did you
know I'm with Billy Battuta now? That's right, how could you, you've
been swimming. Yeah, I gave up waiting for you so I cradlesnatched one
of your ethnic co-persons. You can take it as a compliment. Now I gots
to run. Nice talking to the dead, Chamcha. Next time dive from the low
board. Toodle oo."
I am by nature an inward man, he said silently into the disconnected
phone. I have struggled, in my fashion, to find my way towards an
appreciation of the high things, towards a small measure of fineness.
On good days I felt it was within my grasp, somewhere within me,
somewhere within. But it eluded me. I have become embroiled, in
things, in the world and its messes, and I cannot resist. The grotesque
has me, as before the quotidian had me, in its thrall. The sea gave me
up; the land drags me down.
He was sliding down a grey slope, the black water lapping at his heart.
Why did rebirth, the second chance granted to Gibreel Farishta and
himself, feel so much, in his case, like a perpetual ending? He had been
reborn into the knowledge of death; and the inescapability of change, of
things-never-the-same, of noway-back, made him afraid. When you lose
the past you're naked in front of contemptuous Azraeel, the death-
angel. Hold on if you can, he told himself. Cling to yesterdays. Leave
your nail-marks in the grey slope as you slide.
Billy Battuta: that worthless piece of shit. Playboy Pakistani, turned an
unremarkable holiday business -- _Battuta's Travels_ -- into a fleet of
supertankers. A con--man, basically, famous for his romances with
leading ladies of the Hindi screen and, according to gossip, for his
272
predilection for white women with enormous breasts and plenty of
rump, whom he "treated badly", as the euphemism had it, and
"rewarded handsomely". What did Mimi want with bad Billy, his sexual
instruments and his Maserati Biturbo? For boys like Battuta, white
women -- never mind fat, Jewish, non-deferential white women -- were
for fucking and throwing over. What one hates in whites -- love of
brown sugar -- one must also hate when it turns up, inverted, in black.
Bigotry is not only a function of power.
Mimi telephoned the next evening from New York. Anahita called him
to the phone in her best damnyankee tones, and he struggled into his
disguise. When he got there she had rung off, but she rang back.
"Nobody pays transatlantic prices for hanging on." "Mimi," he said,
with desperation patent in his voice, "you didn't say you were leaving."
"You didn't even tell me your damn address," she responded. "So we
both have secrets." He wanted to say, Mimi, come home, you're going to
get kicked. "I introduced him to the family," she said, too jokily. "You
can imagine. Yassir Arafat meets the Begins. Never mind. We'll all live."
He wanted to say, Mimi, you're all I've got. He managed, however, only
to piss her off. "I wanted to warn you about Billy," was what he said.
She went icy. "Chamcha, listen up. I'll discuss this with you one time
because behind all your bulishit you do maybe care for me a little. So
comprehend, please, that I am an intelligent female. I have read
_Finnegans Wake_ and am conversant with postmodernist critiques of
the West, e.g. that we have here a society capable only of pastiche: a
'flattened' world. When I become the voice of a bottle of bubble bath, I
am entering Flatland knowingly, understanding what I'm doing and
why. Viz., I am earning cash. And as an intelligent woman, able to do
fifteen minutes on Stoicism and more on Japanese cinema, I say to you,
Chamcha, that I am fully aware of Billy boy's rep. Don't teach me about
exploitation. We had exploitation when youplural were running round
273
in skins. Try being Jewish, female and ugly sometime. You'll beg to be
black. Excuse my French: brown."
"You concede, then, that he's exploiting you," Chamcha interposed, but
the torrent swept him away. "What's the fuckin" diff?" she trilled in
her Tweetie Pie voice. "Billy's a funny boy, a natural scam artist, one of
the greats. Who knows for how long this is? I'll tell you some notions I
do not require: patriotism, God and love. Definitely not wanted on the
voyage. I like Billy because he knows the score."
"Mimi," he said, "something's happened to me," but she was still
protesting too much and missed it. He put the receiver down without
giving her his address.
She rang him once more, a few weeks later, and by now the unspoken
precedents had been set; she didn't ask for, he didn't give his
whereabouts, and it was plain to them both that an age had ended, they
had drifted apart, it was time to wave goodbye. It was still all Billy with
Mimi: his plans to make Hindi movies in England and America,
importing the top stars, Vinod Khanna, Sridevi, to cavort in front of
Bradford Town Hall and the Golden Gate Bridge -- "it's some sort of
tax dodge, obviously," Mimi carolled gaily. In fact, things were heating
up for Billy; Chamcha had seen his name in the papers, coupled with
the terms _fraud squad_ and _tax evasion_, but once a scam man,
always a ditto, Mimi said. "So he says to me, do you want a mink? I say,
Billy, don't buy me things, but he says, who's talking about buying?
Have a mink. It's business." They had been in New York again, and Billy
had hired a stretched Mercedes limousine "and a stretched chauffeur
also". Arriving at the furriers, they looked like an oil sheikh and his
moll. Mimi tried on the five figure numbers, waiting for Billy's lead. At
length he said, You like that one? It's nice. Billy, she whispered, it's
_forty thousand_, but he was already smooth-talking the assistant: it
was Friday afternoon, the banks were closed, would the store take a
cheque. "Well, by now they know he's an oil sheikh, so they say yes, we
274
leave with the coat, and he takes me into another store right around the
block, points to the coat, and says, Ijust bought this for forty thousand
dollars, here's the receipt, will you give me thirty for it, I need the cash,
big weekend ahead." -- Mimi and Billy had been kept waiting while the
second store rang the first, where all the alarm bells went off in the
manager's brain, and five minutes later the police arrived, arrested Billy
for passing a dud cheque, and he and Mimi spent the weekend in jail.
On Monday morning the banks opened and it turned out that Billy's
account was in credit to the tune of forty-two thousand, one hundred
and seventeen dollars, so the cheque had been good all the time. He
informed the furriers of his intention to sue them for two million
dollars damages, defamation of character, open and shut case, and
within forty-eight hours they settled out of court for $250,000 on the
nail. "Don't you love him?" Mimi asked Chamcha. "The boy's a genius.
I mean, this was _class_."
I am a man, Chamcha realized, who does not know the score, living in
an amoral, survivalist, get--away--with--it--world. Mishal and Anahita
Sufyan, who still unaccountably treated him like a kind of soul-mate, in
spite of all his attempts to dissuade them, were beings who plainly
admired such creatures as moonlighters, shoplifters, flichers: scam
artists in general. He corrected himself: not admired, that wasn't it.
Neither girl would ever steal a pin. But they saw such persons as
representatives of the gestalt, of how-it-was. As an experiment he told
them the story of Billy Battuta and the mink coat. Their eyes shone, and
at the end they applauded and giggled with delight: wickedness
unpunished made them laugh. Thus, Chamcha realized, people must
once have applauded and giggled at the deeds of earlier outlaws, Dick
Turpin, Ned Kelly, Phoolan Devi, and of course that other Billy:
William Bonney, also a Kid.
"Scrapheap Youths' Criminal Idols," Mishal read his mind and then,
laughing at his disapproval, translated it into yellowpress headlines,
275
while arranging her long, and, Chamcha realized, astonishing body into
similarly exaggerated cheesecake postures. Pouting outrageously, fully
aware of having stirred him, she prettily added: "Kissy kissy?"
Her younger sister, not to be outdone, attempted to copy Mishal's pose,
with less effective results. Abandoning the attempt with some
annoyance, she spoke sulkily. "Trouble is, we've got good prospects, us.
Family business, no brothers, bob's your uncle. This place makes a
packet, dunnit? Well then." The Shaandaar rooming-house was
categorized as a Bed and Breakfast establishment, of the type that
borough councils were using more and more owing to the crisis in
public housing, lodging fiveperson families in single rooms, turning
blind eyes to health and safety regulations, and claiming "temporary
accommodation" allowances from the central government. "Ten quid
per night per person," Anahita informed Chamcha in his attic. "Three
hundred and fifty nicker per room per week, it comes to, as often as
not. Six occupied rooms: you work it out. Right now, we're losing three
hundred pounds a month on this attic, so I hope you feel really bad."
For that kind of money, it struck Chamcha, you could rent pretty
reasonable family-sized apartments in the private sector. But that
wouldn't be classified as temporary accommodation; no central funding
for such solutions. Which would also be opposed by local politicians
committed to fighting the "cuts". _La lutte continue_; meanwhile,
Hind and her daughters raked in the cash, unworldly Sufyan went to
Mecca and came home to dispense homely wisdom, kindliness and
smiles. And behind six doors that opened a crack every time Chamcha
went to make a phone call or use the toilet, maybe thirty temporary
human beings, with little hope of being declared permanent.
The real world.
"You needn't look so fish-faced and holy, anyway," Mishal Sufyan
pointed out. "Look where all your law abiding got you."
276
"Your universe is shrinking." A busy man, Hal Valance, creator of _The
Aliens Show_ and sole owner of the property, took exactly seventeen
seconds to congratulate Chamcha on being alive before beginning to
explain why this fact did not affect the show's decision to dispense with
his services. Valance had started out in advertising and his vocabulary
had never recovered from the blow. Chamcha could keep up, however.
All those years in the voiceover business taught you a little bad
language. In marketing parlance, _a universe_ was the total potential
market for a given product or service: the chocolate universe, the
slimming universe. The dental universe was everybody with teeth; the
others were the denture cosmos. "I'm talking," Valance breathed down
the phone in his best Deep Throat voice, "about the ethnic universe."
_My people again_: Chamcha, disguised in turban and the rest of his ill-
fitting drag, hung on a telephone in a passageway while the eyes of
impermanent women and children gleamed through barely opened
doors; and wondered what his people had done to him now. "No
capeesh," he said, remembering Valance's fondness for Italian--
American argot -- this was, after all, the author of the fast food slogan
_Getta pizza da action_. On this occasion, however, Valance wasn't
playing. "Audience surveys show," he breathed, "that ethnics don't
watch ethnic shows. They don't want "em, Chamcha. They want fucking
_Dynasty_, like everyone else. Your profile's wrong, if you follow: with
you in the show it's just too damn racial. _The Aliens Show_ is too big
an idea to be held back by the racial dimension. The merchandising
possibilities alone, but I don't have to tell you this."
Chamcha saw himself reflected in the small cracked mirror above the
phone box. He looked like a marooned genie in search of a magic lamp.
"It's a point of view," he answered Valance, knowing argument to be
useless. With Hal, all explanations were post facto rationalizations. He
was strictly a seat--of--the--pants man, who took for his motto the
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advice given by Deep Throat to Bob Woodward: _Follow the money_. He
had the phrase set in large sans--serif type and pinned up in his office
over a still from _All the President's Men_: Hal Holbrook (another
Hal!) in the car park, standing in the shadows. Follow the money: it
explained, as he was fond of saying, his five wives, all independently
wealthy, from each of whom he had received a handsome divorce
settlement. He was presently married to a wasted child maybe one-
third his age, with waist--length auburn hair and a spectral look that
would have made her a great beauty a quarter of a century earlier. "This
one doesn't have a bean; she's taking me for all I've got and when she's
taken it she'll bugger off," Valance had told Chamcha once, in happier
days. "What the hell. I'm human, too. This time it's love." More
cradlesnatching. No escape from it in these times. Chamcha on the
telephone found he couldn't remember the infant's name. "You know
my motto," Valance was saying. "Yes," Chamcha said neutrally. "It's the
right line for the product." The product, you bastard, being you.
By the time he met Hal Valance (how many years ago? Five, maybe six),
over lunch at the White Tower, the man was already a monster: pure,
self—created image, a set of attributes plastered thickly over a body that
was, in Hal's own words, "in training to be Orson Welles". He smoked
absurd, caricature cigars, refusing all Cuban brands, however, on
account of his uncompromisingly capitalistic stance. He owned a Union
Jack waistcoat and insisted on flying the flag over his agency and also
above the door of his Highgate home; was prone to dress up as Maurice
Chevalier and sing, at major presentations, to his amazed clients, with
the help of straw boater and silver--headed cane; claimed to own the
first Loire chateau to be fitted with telex and fax machines; and made
much of his "intimate" association with the Prime Minister he referred
to affectionately as "Mrs. Torture". The personification of philistine
triumphalism, midatlantic--accented Hal was one of the glories of the
age, the creative half of the city's hottest agency, the Valance &
Lang Partnership. Like Billy Battuta he liked big cars driven by big
278
chauffeurs. It was said that once, while being driven at high speed down
a Cornish lane in order to "heat up" a particularly glacial seven-foot
Finnish model, there had been an accident: no injuries, but when the
other driver emerged furiously from his wrecked vehicle he turned out
to be even larger than Hal's minder. As this colossus bore down on him,
Hal lowered his push-button window and breathed, with a sweet smile:
"I strongly advise you to turn around and walk swiftly away; because,
sir, if you do not do so within the next fifteen seconds, I am going to
have you killed." Other advertising geniuses were famous for their
work: Mary Wells for her pink Braniff planes, David Ogilvy for his
eyepatchjerry della Femina for "From those wonderful folks who gave
you Pearl Harbor". Valance, whose agency went in for cheap and
cheerful vulgarity, all bums and honky-tonk, was renowned in the
business for this (probably apocryphal) "I'm going to have you killed",
a turn of phrase which proved, to those in the know, that the guy really
was a genius. Chamcha had long suspected he'd made up the story, with
its perfect ad-land components -- Scandinavian icequcen, two thugs,
expensive cars, Valance in the Blofeld role and 007 nowhere on the
scene -- and put it about himself, knowing it to be good for business.
The lunch was by way of thanking Chamcha for his part in a recent,
smash-hit campaign for Slimbix diet foods. Saladin had been the voice
of a cutesy cartoon blob: _Hi. I'm Cal, and I'm one sad calorie_. Four
courses and plenty of champagne as a reward for persuading people to
starve. _How's a poor calorie to earn a salary? Thanks to Slimbix, I'm
out of work_. Chamcha hadn't known what to expect from Valance.
What he got was, at least, unvarnished. "You've done well," Hal
congratulated him, "for a person of the tinted persuasion." And
proceeded, without taking his eyes off Chamcha's face: "Let me tell you
some facts. Within the last three months, we re--shot a peanut--butter
poster because it researched better without the black kid in the
background. We re-recorded a building society jingle because
T"Chairman thought the singer sounded black, even though he was
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white as a sodding sheet, and even though, the year before, we'd used a
black boy who, luckily for him, didn't suffer from an excess of soul. We
were told by a major airline that we couldn't use any blacks in their ads,
even though they were actually employees oi the airline. A black actor
came to audition for me and he was wearing a Racial Equality button
badge, a black hand shaking a white one. I said this: don't think you're
getting special treatment from me, chum. You follow me? You follow
what I'm telling you?" It's a goddamn audition, Saladin realized. "I've
never felt I belonged to a race," he replied. Which was perhaps why,
when Hal Valance set up his production company, Chamcha was on his
"A list"; and why, eventually, Maxim Alien came his way.
When _The Aliens Show_ started coming in for stick from black
radicals, they gave Chamcha a nickname. On account of his private-
school education and closeness to the hated Valance, he was known as
"Brown Uncle Tom".
Apparently the political pressure on the show had increased in
Chamcha's absence, orchestrated by a certain Dr. Uhuru Simba.
"Doctor of what, beats me," Valance deepthroatcd down the phone.
"Our ah researchers haven't come up with anything yet." Mass pickets,
an embarrassing appearance on _Right to Reply_. "The guy's built like
a fucking tank." Chamcha envisaged the pair of them, Valance and
Simba, as one another's antitheses. It seemed that the protests had
succeeded: Valance was "de--politicizing" the show, by firing Chamcha
and putting a huge blond Teuton with pectorals and a quiff inside the
prosthetic make-up and computergenerated imagery. A latex-and-
Quantel Schwarzenegger, a synthetic, hip-talking version of Rutger
Hauer in _Blade Runner_. The Jews were out, too: instead of Mimi, the
new show would have a voluptuous shiksa doll. "I sent word to Dr.
Simba: stick that up your fucking pee aitch dee. No reply has been
received. He'll have to work harder than that if he's going to take over
_this_ little country. I," Hal Valance announced, "love this fucking
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country. That's why I'm going to sell it to the whole goddamn world,
Japan, America, fucking Argentina. I'm going to sell the arse off it.
That's what I've been selling all my fucking life: the fucking nation.
The _flag_." He didn't hear what he was saying. When he got going on
this stuff, he went puce and often wept. He had done just that at the
White Tower, that first time, while stuffing himself full of Greek food.
The date came back to Chamcha now: just after the Falklands war.
People had a tendency to swear loyalty oaths in those days, to hum
"Pomp and Circumstance" on the buses. So when Valance, over a large
balloon of Armagnac, started up -- "I'll tell you why I love this country"
-- Chamcha, pro-Falklands himself, thought he knew what was coming
next. But Valance began to describe the research programme of a British
aerospace company, a client of his, which had just revolutionized the
construction of missile guidance systems by studying the flight pattern
of the common housefly. "Inflight course corrections," he whispered
theatrically. "Traditionally done in the line of flight: adjust the angle
up a bit, down a touch, left or right a nadge. Scientists studying high-
speed film of the humble fly, however, have discovered that the little
buggers always, but always, make corrections _in right angles_." He
demonstrated with his hand stretched out, palm flat, fingers together.
"Bzzt! Bzzt! The bastards actually fly vertically up, down or sideways.
Much more accurate. Much more fuel efficient. Try to do it with an
engine that depends on nose-to-tail airflow, and what happens? The
sodding thing can't breathe, stalls, falls out of the sky, lands on your
fucking allies. Bad karma. You follow. You follow what I'm saying. So
these guys, they invent an engine with three--way airflow: nose to tail,
plus top to bottom, plus side to side. And bingo: a missile that flies like
a goddamn fly, and can hit a fifty p coin travelling at a ground speed of
one hundred miles an hour at a distance of three miles. What I love
about this country is that: its genius. Greatest inventors in the world.
It's beautiful: am I right or am I right?" He had been deadly serious.
Chamcha answered: "You're right." "You're damn right I'm right," he
confirmed.
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They met for the last time just before Chamcha took off for Bombay:
Sunday lunch at the flag-waving Highgate mansion. Rosewood
panelling, a terrace with stone urns, a view down a wooded hill. Valance
complaining about a new development that would louse up the scenery.
Lunch was predictably jingoistic: _rosbif, boudin Yorkshire, choux de
bruxelles_. Baby, the nymphet wife, didn't join them, but ate hot
pastrami on rye while shooting pool in a nearby room. Servants, a
thunderous Burgundy, more Armagnac, cigars. The self--made man's
paradise, Chamcha reflected, and recognized the envy in the thought.
After lunch, a surprise. Valance led him into a room in which there
stood two clavichords of great delicacy and lightness. "I make "em," his
host confessed. "To relax. Baby wants me to make her a fucking guitar."
Hal Valance's talent as a cabinet--maker was undeniable, and somehow
at odds with the rest of the man. "My father was in the trade," he
admitted under Chamcha's probing, and Saladin understood that he
had been granted a privileged glimpse into the only piece that remained
of Valance's original self, the Harold that derived from history and
blood and not from his own frenetic brain.
When they left the secret chamber of the clavichords, the familiar Hal
Valance instantly reappeared. Leaning on the balustrade of his terrace,
he confided: "The thing that's so amazing about her is the size of what
she's trying to do." Her? Baby? Chamcha was confused. "I'm talking
about you-know-who," Valance explained helpfully. "Torture. Maggie
the Bitch." Oh. "She's radical all right. What she wants -- what she
actually thinks she can fucking _achieve_ -- is literally to invent a whole
goddamn new middle class in this country. Get rid of the old woolly
incompetent buggers from fucking Surrey and Hampshire, and bring in
the new. People without background, without history. Hungry people.
People who really _want_, and who know that with her, they can bloody
well get. Nobody's ever tried to replace a whole fucking _class_ before,
and the amazing thing is she might just do it if they don't get her first.
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The old class. The dead men. You follow what I'm saying." "I think so,"
Chamcha lied. "And it's not just the businessmen," Valance said
slurrily. "The intellectuals, too. Out with the whole faggoty crew. In
with the hungry guys with the wrong education. New professors, new
painters, the lot. It's a bloody revolution. Newness coming into this
country that's stuffed full of fucking old _corpses_. It's going to be
something to see. It already is."
Baby wandered out to meet them, looking bored. "Time you were off,
Chamcha," her husband commanded. "On Sunday afternoons we go to
bed and watch pornography on video. It's a whole new world, Saladin.
Everybody has to join sometime."
No compromises. You're in or you're dead. It hadn't been Chamcha's
way; not his, nor that of the England he had idolized and come to
conquer. He should have understood then and there: he was being
given, had been given, fair warning.
And now the coup de grace. "No hard feelings," Valance was murmuring
into his ear. "See you around, eh? Okay, right."
"Hal," he made himself object, "I've got a contract."
Like a goat to the slaughter. The voice in his ear was now openly
amused. "Don't be silly," it told him. "Of course you haven't. Read the
small print. Get a _lawyer_ to read the small print. Take me to court.
Do what you have to do. It's nothing to me. Don't you get it? You're
history."
Dialling tone.
Abandoned by one alien England, marooned within another, Mr.
Saladin Chamcha in his great dejection received news of an old
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companion who was evidently enjoying better fortunes. The shriek of
his landlady -- "_Tini benche achen!_" -- warned him that something
was up. Hind was billowing along the corridors of the Shaandaar B and
B, waving, it turned out, a current copy of the imported Indian fanzine
_Cine-Blitz_. Doors opened; temporary beings popped out, looking
puzzled and alarmed. Mishal Sufyan emerged from her room with yards
of midriff showing between shortie tank-top and 501s. From the office
he maintained across the hall, Hanif Johnson emerged in the
incongruity of a sharp three--piece suit, was hit by the midriff and
covered his face. "Lord have mercy," he prayed. Mishal ignored him and
yelled after her mother: "What's up? Who's alive?"
"Shameless from somewhere," Hind shouted back along the passage,
"cover your nakedness."
"Fuck off," Mishal muttered under her breath, fixing mutinous eyes on
Hanif Johnson. "What about the michelins sticking out between her
sari and her choli, I want to know." Down at the other end of the
passage, Hind could be seen in the half-light, thrusting _Cine-Blitz_ at
the tenants, repeating, he's alive. With all the fervour of those Greeks
who, after the disappearance of the politician Lambrakis, covered the
country with the whitewashed letter _Z_. _Zi: he lives_.
"Who?" Mishal demanded again.
"_Gibreel_," came the cry of impermanent children. "_Farishta benche
achen_." Hind, disappearing downstairs, did not observe her elder
daughter returning to her room, -- leaving the door ajar; -- and being
followed, when he was sure the coast was clear, by the well-known
lawyer Hanif Johnson, suited and booted, who maintained this office to
keep in touch with the grass roots, who was also doing well in a smart
uptown practice, who was well connected with the local Labour Party
and was accused by the sitting M P of scheming to take his place when
reselection came around.
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When was Mishal Sufyan's eighteenth birthday? -- Not for a few weeks
yet. And where was her sister, her roommate, sidekick, shadow, echo
and foil? Where was the potential chaperone? She was: out.
But to continue:
The news from _Cine-Blitz_ was that a new, London-based film
production outfit headed by the whiz-kid tycoon Billy Battuta, whose
interest in cinema was well known, had entered into an association with
the reputable, independent Indian producer Mr. S. S. Sisodia for the
purpose of producing a comeback vehicle for the legendary Gibreel, now
exclusively revealed to have escaped the jaws of death for a second time.
"It is true I was booked on the plane under the name of Najmuddin,"
the star was quoted as saying. "I know that when the investigating
sleuths identified this as my incognito -- in fact, my real name -- it
caused great grief back home, and for this I do sincerely apologize to
my fans. You see, the truth is, that grace of God I somehow missed the
flight, and as I had wished in any case to go to ground, excuse, please,
no pun intended, I permitted the fiction of my demise to stand
uncorrected and took a later flight. Such luck: truly, an angel must have
been watching over me." After a time of reflection, however, he had
concluded that it was wrong to deprive his public, in this
unsportsmanlike and hurtful way, of the true data and also his presence
on the screen. "Therefore I have accepted this project with full
commitment and joy." The film was to be -- what else -- a theological,
but of a new type. It would be set in an imaginary and fabulous city
made of sand, and would recount the story of the encounter between a
prophet and an archangel; also the temptation of the prophet, and his
choice of the path of purity and not that of base compromise. "It is a
film," the producer, Sisodia, informed _Cine -Blitz_, "about how
newness enters the world." -- But would it not be seen as blasphemous,
a crime against . . . -- "Certainly not," Billy Battuta insisted. "Fiction is
fiction; facts are facts. Our purpose is not to make some farrago like
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that movie _The Message_ in which, whenever Prophet Muhammad (on
whose name be peace!) was heard to speak, you saw only the head of his
camel, moving its mouth. _That_ -- excuse me for pointing out -- had
no class. We are making a high--taste, quality picture. A moral tale: like
-- what do you call them? -- fables."
"Like a dream," Mr. Sisodia said.
When the news was brought to Chamcha's attic later that day by
Anahita and Mishal Sufyan, he flew into the vilest rage either of them
had ever witnessed, a fury under whose fearful influence his voice rose
so high that it seemed to tear, as if his throat had grown knives and
ripped his cries to shreds; his pestilential breath all but blasted them
from the room, and with arms raised high and goat--legs dancing he
looked, at last, like the very devil whose image he had become. "Liar,"
he shrieked at the absent Gibreel. "Traitor, deserter, scum. Missed the
plane, did you? -- Then whose head, in my own lap, with my own hands .
. . ? -- who received caresses, spoke of nightmares, and fell at last
singing from the sky?"
"There, there," pleaded terrified Mishal. "Calm down. You'll have Mum
up here in a minute."
Saladin subsided, a pathetic goaty heap once again, no threat to anyone.
"It's not true," he wailed. "What happened, happened to us both."
"Course it did," Anahita encouraged him. "Nobody believes those movie
magazines, anyway. They'll say anything, them."
Sisters backed out of the room, holding their breath, leaving Chamcha
to his misery, failing to observe something quite remarkable. For which
they must not be blamed; Chamcha's antics were sufficient to have
distracted the keenest eyes. It should also, in fairness, be stated that
Saladin failed to notice the change himself.
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What happened? This: during Chamcha's brief but violent outburst
against Gibreel, the horns on his head (which, one may as well point
out, had grown several inches while he languished in the attic of the
Shaandaar B and B) definitely, unmistakably, -- by about three-quarters
of an inch, -- _diminished_.
In the interest of the strictest accuracy, one should add that, lower
down his transformed body, -- inside borrowed pantaloons (delicacy
forbids the publication of explicit details), -- something else, let us
leave it at that, got a little smaller, too.
Be that as it may: it transpired that the optimism of the report in the
imported movie magazine had been ill founded, because within days of
its publication the local papers carried news of Billy Battuta's arrest, in
a midtown New York sushi bar, along with a female companion,
Mildred Mamoulian, described as an actress, forty years of age. The
story was that he had approached numbers of society matrons, "movers
and shakers", asking for "very substantial" sums of money which he
had claimed to need in order to buy his freedom from a sect of devil
worshippers. Once a confidence man, always a confidence man: it was
what Mimi Mamoulian would no doubt have described as a beautiful
sting. Penetrating the heart of American religiosity, pleading to be
saved -- "when you sell your soul you can't expect to buy back cheap" --
Billy had banked, the investigators alleged, "six figure sums". The
world community of the faithful longed, in the late 1980s, for _direct
contact with the supernal_, and Billy, claiming to have raised (and
therefore to need rescuing from) infernal fiends, was on to a winner,
especially as the Devil he offered was so democratically responsive to
the dictates of the Almighty Dollar. What Billy offered the West Side
matrons in return for their fat cheques was verification: yes, there is a
Devil; I've seen him with my own eyes -- God, it was frightful! -- and if
Lucifer existed, so must Gabriel; if Hellfire had been seen to burn, then
somewhere, over the rainbow, Paradise must surely shine. Mimi
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Mamoulian had, it was alleged, played a full part in the deceptions,
weeping and pleading for all she was worth. They were undone by
overconfidence, spotted at Takesushi (whooping it up and cracking
jokes with the chef) by a Mrs. Aileen Struwelpeter who had, only the
previous afternoon, handed the then-distraught and terrified couple a
five-thousand-dollar cheque. Mrs. Struwelpeter was not without
influence in the New York Police Department, and the boys in blue
arrived before Mimi had finished her tempura. They both went quietly.
Mimi was wearing, in the newspaper photographs, what Chamcha
guessed was a forty-thousanddollar mink coat, and an expression on her
face that could only be read one way.
_The hell with you all_.
Nothing further was heard, for some while, about Farishta's film.
_It was so, it was not_, that as Saladin Chamcha's incarceration in the
body of a devil and the attic of the Shaandaar B and B lengthened into
weeks and months, it became impossible not to notice that his
condition was worsening steadily. His horns (notwithstanding their
single, momentary and unobserved diminution) had grown both thicker
and longer, twirling themselves into fanciful arabesques, wreathing his
head in a turban of darkening bone. He had grown a thick, long beard, a
disorienting development in one whose round, moony face had never
boasted much hair before; indeed, he was growing hairier all over his
body, and had even sprouted, from the base of his spine, a fine tail that
lengthened by the day and had already obliged him to abandon the
wearing of trousers; he tucked the new limb, instead, inside baggy
salwar pantaloons filched by Anahita Sufyan from her mother's
generously tailored collection. The distress engendered in him by his
continuing metamorphosis into some species of bottled djinn will
readily be imagined. Even his appetites were altering. Always fussy
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about his food, he was appalled to find his palate coarsening, so that all
foodstuffs began to taste much the same, and on occasion he would
find himself nibbling absently at his bedsheets or old newspapers, and
come to his senses with a start, guilty and shamefaced at this further
evidence of his progress away from manhood and towards -- yes --
goatishness. Increasing quantities of green mouthwash were required to
keep his breath within acceptable limits. It really was too grievous to be
borne.
His presence in the house was a continual thorn in the side of Hind, in
whom regret for the lost income mingled with the remnants of her
initial terror, although it's true to say that the soothing processes of
habituation had worked their sorceries on her, helping her to see
Saladin's condition as some kind of Elephant Man illness, a thing to
feel disgusted by but not necessarily to fear. "Let him keep out of my
way and I'll keep out of his," she told her daughters. "And you, the
children of my despair, why you spend your time sitting up there with a
sick person while your youth is flying by, who can say, but in this
Vilayet it seems everything I used to know is a lie, such as the idea that
young girls should help their mothers, think of marriage, attend to
studies, and not go sitting with goats, whose throats, on Big Eid, it is
our old custom to slit."
Her husband remained solicitous, however, even after the strange
incident that took place when he ascended to the attic and suggested to
Saladin that the girls might not have been so wrong, that perhaps the,
how could one put it, possession of his body could be terminated by the
intercession of a mullah? At the mention of a priest Chamcha reared up
on his feet, raising both arms above his head, and somehow or other the
room filled up with dense and sulphurous smoke while a highpitched
vibrato screech with a kind of tearing quality pierced Sufyan's hearing
like a spike. The smoke cleared quickly enough, because Chamcha flung
open a window and fanned feverishly at the fumes, while apologizing to
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Sufyan in tones of acute embarrassment: "I really can't say what came
over me, -- but at times I fear I am changing into something, --
something one must call bad."
Sufyan, kindly fellow that he was, went over to where Chamcha sat
clutching at his horns, patted him on the shoulder, and tried to bring
what good cheer he could. "Question of mutability of the essence of the
self," he began, awkwardly, "has long been subject of profound debate.
For example, great Lucretius tells us, in _De Rerum Natura_, this
following thing: _quodcumque suis mutatumfinibus exit, continuo hoc
mors est illius quodfuit ante_. Which being translated, forgive my
clumsiness, is 'Whatever by its changing goes out of its frontiers,' --
that is, bursts its banks, -- or, maybe, breaks out of its limitations, -- so
to speak, disregards its own rules, but that is too free, I am thinking . .
'that thing', at any rate, Lucretius holds, 'by doing so brings immediate
death to its old self. However," up went the ex-- schoolmaster's finger,
"poet Ovid, in the _Metamorphoses_, takes diametrically opposed view.
He avers thus: 'As yielding wax' -- heated, you see, possibly for the
sealing of documents or such, -- 'is stamped with new designs And
changes shape and seems not still the same, Yet is indeed the same, even
so our souls,' -- you hear, good sir? Our spirits! Our immortal essences!
-- 'Are still the same forever, but adopt In their migrations ever-varying
forms.' "
He was hopping, now, from foot to foot, full of the thrill of the old
words. "For me it is always Ovid over Lucretius," he stated. "Your soul,
my good poor dear sir, is the same. Only in its migration it has adopted
this presently varying form."
"This is pretty cold comfort," Chamcha managed a trace of his old
dryness. "Either I accept Lucretius and conclude that some demonic
and irreversible mutation is taking place in my inmost depths, or I go
with Ovid and concede that everything now emerging is no more than a
manifestation of what was already there."
290
"I have put my argument badly," Sufyan miserably apologized. "I meant
only to reassure."
"What consolation can there be," Chamcha answered with bitter
rhetoric, his irony crumbling beneath the weight of his unhappiness,
"for a man whose old friend and rescuer is also the nightly lover of his
wife, thus encouraging -- as your old books would doubtless affirm --
the growth of cuckold's horns?"
The old friend, Jumpy Joshi, was unable for a single moment of his
waking hours to rid himself of the knowledge that, for the first time in
as long as he could remember, he had lost the will to lead his life
according to his own standards of morality. At the sports centre where
he taught martial arts techniques to ever-- greater numbers of students,
emphasizing the spiritual aspects of the disciplines, much to their
amusement ("Ah so, Grasshopper," his star pupil Mishal Sufyan would
tease him, "when honolable fascist swine jump at you flom dark
alleyway, offer him teaching of Buddha before you kick him in
honolable balls"), -- he began to display such _passionate intensity_
that his pupils, realizing that some inner anguish was being expressed,
grew alarmed. When Mishal asked him about it at the end of a session
that had left them both bruised and panting for breath, in which the
two of them, teacher and star, had hurled themselves at one another
like the hungriest of lovers, he threw her question back at her with an
uncharacteristic lack of openness. "Talk about pot and kettle," he said.
"Question of mote and beam." They were standing by the vending
machines. She shrugged. "Okay," she said. "I confess, but keep the
secret." He reached for his Coke: "What secret?" Innocent Jumpy.
Mishal whispered in his ear: "I'm getting laid. By your friend: Mister
Hanif Johnson, Bar At Law."
291
He was shocked, which irritated her. "O, come on. It's not like I'm
_fifteen_." He replied, weakly, "If your mother ever," and once again
she was impatient. "If you want to know," petulantly, "the one I'm
worried about is Anahita. She wants whatever I've got. And she, by the
way, really is fifteen." Jumpy noticed that he'd knocked over his paper-
cup and there was Coke on his shoes. "Out with it," Mishal was
insisting. "I owned up. Your turn." But Jumpy couldn't say; was still
shaking his head about Hanif. "It'd be the finish of him," he said. That
did it. Mishal put her nose in the air. "O, I get it," she said. "Not good
enough for him, you reckon." And over her departing shoulder: "Here,
Grasshopper. Don't holy men ever fuck?"
Not so holy. He wasn't cut out for sainthood, any more than the David
Carradine character in the old _Kung Fu_ programmes: like
Grasshopper, like Jumpy. Every day he wore himself out trying to stay
away from the big house in Notting Hill, and every evening he ended up
at Pamela's door, thumb in mouth, biting the skin around the edges of
the nail, fending off the dog and his own guilt, heading without
wasting any time for the bedroom. Where they would fall upon one
another, mouths searching out the places in which they had chosen, or
learned, to begin: first his lips around her nipples, then hers moving
along his lower thumb.
She had come to love in him this quality of impatience, because it was
followed by a patience such as she had never experienced, the patience
of a man who had never been "attractive" and was therefore prepared to
value what was offered, or so she had thought at first; but then she
learned to appreciate his consciousness of and solicitude for her own
internal tensions, his sense of the difficulty with which her slender,
bony, small-breasted body found, learned and finally surrendered to a
rhythm, his knowledge of time. She loved in him, too, his overcoming
of himself; loved, knowing it to be a wrong reason, his willingness to
overcome his scruples so that they might be together: loved the desire
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in him that rode over all that had been imperative in him. Loved it,
without being willing to see, in this love, the beginning of an end.
Near the end of their lovemaking, she became noisy. "Yow!" she
shouted, all the aristocracy in her voice crowding into the meaningless
syllables of her abandonment. "Whoop! Hi! _Hah_."
She was still drinking heavily, scotch bourbon rye, a stripe of redness
spreading across the centre of her face. Under the influence of alcohol
her right eye narrowed to half the size of the left, and she began, to his
horror, to disgust him. No discussion of her boozing was permitted,
however: the one time he tried he found himself on the street with his
shoes clutched in his right hand and his overcoat over his left arm. Even
after that he came back: and she opened the door and went straight
upstairs as though nothing had happened. Pamela's taboos: jokes about
her background, mentions of whisky-bottle "dead soldiers", and any
suggestion that her late husband, the actor Saladin Chamcha, was still
alive, living across town in a bed and breakfast joint, in the shape of a
supernatural beast.
These days, Jumpy -- who had, at first, badgered her incessantly about
Saladin, telling her she should go ahead and divorce him, but this
pretence of widowhood was intolerable: what about the man's assets,
his rights to a share of the property, and so forth? Surely she would not
leave him destitute? -- no longer protested about her unreasonable
behaviour. "I've got a confirmed report of his death," she told him on
the only occasion on which she was prepared to say anything at all.
"And what have you got? A billy-goat, a circus freak, nothing to do with
me." And this, too, like her drinking, had begun to come between them.
Jumpy's martial arts sessions increased in vehemence as these problems
loomed larger in his mind.
Ironically, while Pamela refused point--blank to face the facts about her
estranged husband, she had become embroiled, through her job at the
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community relations committee, in an investigation into allegations of
the spread of witchcraft among the officers at the local police station.
Various stations did from time to time gain the reputation of being
"out of control" -- Notting Hill, Kentish Town, Islington -- but
witchcraft? Jumpy was sceptical. "The trouble with you," Pamela told
him in her loftiest shootingstick voice, "is that you still think of
normality as being normal. My God: look at what's happening in this
country. A few bent coppers taking their clothes off and drinking urine
out of helmets isn't so weird. Call it working-class Freemasonry, if you
want. I've got black people coming in every day, scared out of their
heads, talking about obeah, chicken entrails, the lot. The goddamn
bastards are _enjoying_ this: scare the coons with their own ooga booga
and have a few naughty nights into the bargain. Unlikely? Bloody _wake
up_." Witchfinding, it seemed, ran in the family: from Matthew
Hopkins to Pamela Lovelace. In Pamela's voice, speaking at public
meetings, on local radio, even on regional news programmes on
television, could be heard all the zeal and authority of the old
Witchflnder-General, and it was only on account of that voice of a
twentieth-century Gloriana that her campaign was not laughed
instantly into extinction. _New Broomstick Needed to Sweep Out
Witches_. There was talk of an official inquiry. What drove Jumpy wild,
however, was Pamela's refusal to connect her arguments in the question
of the occult policemen to the matter of her own husband: because,
after all, the transformation of Saladin Chamcha had precisely to do
with the idea that normality was no longer composed (if it had ever
been) of banal, "normal" elements. "Nothing to do with it," she said
flatly when he tried to make the point: imperious, he thought, as any
hanging judge.
After Mishal Sufyan told him about her illegal sexual relations with
Hanif Johnson, Jumpy on his way over to Pamela Chamcha's had to
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stifle a number of bigoted thoughts, such as _his father hadn't been
white he'd never have done it_; Hanif, he raged, that immature bastard
who probably cut notches in his cock to keep count of his conquests,
this Johnson with aspirations to represent his people who couldn't wait
until they were of age before he started shafting them! . . . couldn't he
see that Mishal with her omniscient body was just a, just a, child? -- No
she wasn't. -- Damn him, then, damn him for (and here Jumpy shocked
himself) being the first.
Jumpy en route to his mistress tried to convince himself that his
resentments of Hanif, _his friend Hanif_, were primarily -- how to put
it? -- _linguistic_. Hanif was in perfect control of the languages that
mattered: sociological, socialistic, black--radical, anti--anti-- anti--
racist, demagogic, oratorical, sermonic: the vocabularies of power. _But
you bastard you rummage in my drawers and laugh at my stupid poems.
The real language problem: how to bend it shape it, how to let it be our
freedom, how to repossess its poisoned wells, how to master the river of
words of time of blood: about all that you haven't got a clue_. How
hard that struggle, how inevitable the defeat. _Nobody's going to elect
me to anything. No power-base, no constituency: just the battle with
the words_. But he, Jumpy, also had to admit that his envy of Hanif was
as much as anything rooted in the other's greater control of the
languages of desire. Mishal Sufyan was quite something, an elongated,
tubular beauty, but he wouldn't have known how, even if he'd thought
of, he'd never have dared. Language is courage: the ability to conceive a
thought, to speak it, and by doing so to make it true.
When Pamela Chamcha answered the door he found that her hair had
gone snow-white overnight, and that her response to this inexplicable
calamity had been to shave her head right down to the scalp and then
conceal it inside an absurd burgundy turban which she refused to
remove.
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"It just happened," she said. "One must not rule out the possibility
that I have been bewitched."
He wasn't standing for that. "Or the notion of a reaction, however
delayed, to the news of your husband's altered, but extant, state."
She swung to face him, halfway up the stairs to the bedroom, and
pointed dramatically towards the open sitting-room door. "In that
case," she triumphed, "why did it also happen to the dog?"
He might have told her, that night, that he wanted to end it, that his
conscience no longer permitted, -- he might have been willing to face
her rage, and to live with the paradox that a decision could be
simultaneously conscientious and immoral (because cruel, unilateral,
selfish); but when he entered the bedroom she grabbed his face with
both hands, and watching closely to see how he took the news she
confessed to having lied about contraceptive precautions. She was
pregnant. It turned out she was better at making unilateral decisions
than he, and had simply taken from him the child Saladin Chamcha had
been unable to provide. "I wanted it," she cried defiantly, and at close
range. "And now I'm going to have it."
Her selfishness had pre-empted his. He discovered that he felt relieved;
absolved of the responsibility for making and acting upon moral
choices, -- because how could he leave her now? -- he put such notions
out of his head and allowed her, gently but with unmistakable intent,
to push him backwards on to the bed.
Whether the slowly transmogrifying Saladin Chamcha was turning into
some sort of science-fiction or horror-video mutey, some random
mutation shortly to be naturally selected out of existence, -- or whether
296
he was evolving into an avatar of the Master of Hell, -- or whatever was
the case, the fact is (and it will be as well in the present matter to
proceed cautiously, stepping from established fact to established fact,
leaping to no conclusion until our yellowbrick lane of things-
incontrovertibly-so has led us to within an inch or two of our
destination) that the two daughters of Haji Sufyan had taken him
under their wing, caring for the Beast as only Beauties can; and that, as
time passed, he came to be extremely fond of the pair of them himself.
For a long while Mishal and Anahita struck him as inseparable, fist and
shadow, shot and echo, the younger girl seeking always to emulate her
tall, feisty sibling, practising karate kicks and Wing Chun forearm
smashes in flattering imitation of Mishal's uncompromising ways.
More recently, however, he had noted the growth of a saddening
hostility between the sisters. One evening at his attic window Mishal
was pointing out some of the Street's characters, -- there, a Sikh
ancient shocked by a racial attack into complete silence; he had not
spoken, it was said, for nigh on seven years, before which he had been
one of the city's few "black" justices of the peace . . . now, however, he
pronounced no sentences, and was accompanied everywhere by a
crotchety wife who treated him with dismissive exasperation, _0, ignore
him, he never says a dicky bird_; -- and over there, a perfectly ordinary-
looking "accountant type" (Mishal's term) on his way home with
briefcase and box of sweetmeats; this one was known in the Street to
have developed the strange need to rearrange his sitting-room furniture
for half an hour each evening, placing chairs in rows interrupted by an
aisle and pretending to be the conductor of a single-decker bus on its
way to Bangladesh, an obsessive fantasy in which all his family were
obliged to participate, _and after ha if an hour precisely he snaps out of
it, and the rest of the time he's the dullest guy you could meet_; -- and
after some moments of this, fifteen-year-old Anahita broke in
spitefully: "What she means is, you're not the only casualty, round here
the freaks are two a penny, you only have to look."
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Mishal had developed the habit of talking about the Street as if it were
a mythological battleground and she, on high at Chamcha's attic
window, the recording angel and the exterminator, too. From her
Chamcha learned the fables of the new Kurus and Pandavas, the white
racists and black "self— help" or vigilante posses starring in this modern
_Mahabharata_, or, more accurately, _Mahavila yet_. Up there, under
the railway bridge, the National Front used to do battle with the
fearless radicals of the Socialist Workers Party, "every Sunday from
closing time to opening time," she sneered, "leaving us lot to clear up
the wreckage the rest of the sodding week." -- Down that alley was
where the Brickhall Three were done over by the police and then fitted
up, verballed, framed; up that side-street he'd find the scene of the
murder of the Jamaican, Ulysses E. Lee, and in that public house the
stain on the carpet marking where Jatinder Singh Mehta breathed his
last. "Thatcherism has its effect," she declaimed, while Chamcha, who
no longer had the will or the words to argue with her, to speak ofjustice
and the rule of law, watched Anahita's mounting rage. -- "No pitched
battles these days," Mishal elucidated. "The emphasis is on small— scale
enterprises and the cult of the individual, right? In other words, five or
six white bastards murdering us, one individual at a time." These days
the posses roamed the nocturnal Street, ready for aggravation. "It's our
turf," said Mishal Sufyan of that Street without a blade of grass in
sight. "Let "em come and get it if they can."
"Look at her," Anahita burst out. "So ladylike, in"she? So refined.
Imagine what Mum'd say if she knew." -- "If she knew what, you little
grass --?" But Anahita wasn't to be cowed: "O, yes," she wailed. "O, yes,
we know, don't think we don't. How she goes to the bhangra beat
shows on Sunday mornings and changes in the ladies into those tarty—
farty clothes -- who she wiggles with and jiggles with at the Hot Wax
daytime disco that she thinks I never heard of before -- what went on at
that bluesdance she crept off to with Mister You-know-who
Cockybugger -- some big sister," she produced her grandstand finish,
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"she'll probably wind up dead of wossname _ignorance_." Meaning, as
Chamcha and Mishal well knew, -- those cinema commercials,
expressionist tombstones rising from earth and sea, had left the residue
of their slogan well implanted, no doubt of that -- _Aids_.
Mishal fell upon her sister, pulling her hair, -- Anahita, in pain, was
nevertheless able to get in another dig, "Least I didn't cut my hair into
any weirdo pincushion, must be a flutter who fancies _that_," and the
two departed, leaving Chamcha to wonder at Anahita's sudden and
absolute espousal of her mother's ethic of femininity. _Trouble
brewing_, he concluded.
Trouble came: soon enough.
More and more, when he was alone, he felt the slow heaviness pushing
him down, until he fell out of consciousness, running down like a wind-
up toy, and in those passages of stasis that always ended just before the
arrival of visitors his body would emit alarming noises, the howlings of
infernal wahwah pedals, the snare--drum cracking of satanic bones.
These were the periods in which, little by little, he grew. And as he grew,
so too did the rumours of his presence; you can't keep a devil locked up
in the attic and expect to keep it to yourself forever.
How the news got out (for the people in the know remained tight-
lipped, the Sufyans because they feared loss of business, the temporary
beings because their feeling of evanescence had rendered them unable,
for the moment, to act, -- and all parties because of the fear of the
arrival of the police, never exactly reluctant to enter such
establishments, bump accidentally into a little furniture and step by
chance on a few arms legs necks): he began to appear to the locals in
their dreams. The mullahs at the Jamme Masjid which used to be the
Machzikel HaDath synagogue which had in its turn replaced the
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Huguenots' Calvinist church; -- and Dr. Uhuru Simba the man-
mountain in African pill-box hat and red-yellow-black poncho who had
led the successful protest against _The Aliens Show_ and whom Mishal
Sufyan hated more than any other black man on account of his
tendency to punch uppity women in the mouth, herself for example, in
public, at a meeting, plenty of witnesses, but it didn't stop the Doctor,
_he's a crazy bastard, that one_, she told Chamcha when she pointed
him out from the attic one day, _capable of anything; he could've killed
me, and all because I told everybody he wasn't no African, I knew him
when he was plain Sylvester Roberts from down New Cross way;fucking
witch doctor, if you ask me_; -- and Mishal herself, and Jumpy, and
Hanif; -- and the Bus Conductor, too, they all dreamed him, rising up in
the Street like Apocalypse and burning the town like toast. And in every
one of the thousand and one dreams he, Saladin Chamcha, gigantic of
limb and horn-turbaned of head, was singing, in a voice so diabolically
ghastly and guttural that it proved impossible to identify the verses,
even though the dreams turned out to have the terrifying quality of
being serial, each one following on from the one the night before, and
so on, night after night, until even the Silent Man, that former justice
of the peace who had not spoken since the night in an Indian restaurant
when a young drunk stuck a knife under his nose, threatened to cut
him, and then committed the far more shocking offence of spitting all
over his food, -- until this mild gentleman astounded his wife by sitting
upright in his sleep, ducking his neck forwards like a pigeon's, clapping
the insides of his wrists together beside his right ear, and roaring out a
song at the top of his voice, which sounded so alien and full of static
that she couldn't make out a word.
Very quickly, because nothing takes a long time any more, the image of
the dream-devil started catching on, becoming popular, it should be
said, only amongst what Hal Valance had described as the _tinted
persuasion_. While non-tint neo--Georgians dreamed of a suiphurous
enemy crushing their perfectly restored residences beneath his smoking
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heel, nocturnal browns-and-blacks found themselves cheering, in their
sleep, this what--else--after--all— but— black--man, maybe a little twisted
up by fate class race history, all that, but getting off his behind, bad
and mad, to kick a little ass.
At first these dreams were private matters, but pretty soon they started
leaking into the waking hours, as Asian retailers and manufacturers of
button-badges sweatshirts posters understood the power of the dream,
and then all of a sudden he was everywhere, on the chests of young girls
and in the windows protected against bricks by metal grilles, he was a
defiance and a warning. Sympathy for the Devil: a new lease of life for
an old tune. The kids in the Street started wearing rubber devil--horns
on their heads, the way they used to wear pink-and-green balls jiggling
on the ends of stiff wires a few years previously, when they preferred to
imitate spacemen. The symbol of the Goatman, his fist raised in might,
began to crop up on banners at political demonstrations, Save the Six,
Free the Four, Eat the Heinz FiftySeven. _Pleasechu meechu_, the radios
sang, _hopeyu guessma nayym_. Police community relations officers
pointed to the "growing devil-cult among young blacks and Asians" as a
"deplorable tendency", using this "Satanist revival" to fight back
against the allegations of Ms Pamela Chamcha and the local CR C:
"Who are the witches now?" "Chamcha," Mishal said excitedly, "you're
a hero. I mean, people can really identify with you. It's an image white
society has rejected for so long that we can really take it, you know,
occupy it, inhabit it, reclaim it and make it our own. It's time you
considered action."
"Go away," cried Saladin, in his bewilderment. "This isn't what I
wanted. This is not what I meant, at all."
"You're growing out of the attic, anyhow," rejoined Mishal, miffed. "It
won't be big enough for you in not too long a while."
Things were certainly coming to a head.
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"Another old lady get slice las' night," announced Hanif Johnson,
affecting a Trinidadian accent in the way he had. "No mo soshaal
security for she." Anahita Sufyan, on duty behind the counter of the
Shaandaar Cafe, banged cups and plates. "I don't know why you do
that," she complained. "Sends me spare." Hanif ignored her, sat down
beside Jumpy, who muttered absently: "What're they saying?" --
Approaching fatherhood was weighing on Jumpy Joshi, but Hanif
slapped him on the back. "The ol' poetry not goin great, bra," he
commiserated. "Look like that river of blood get coagulate." A look
from Jumpy changed his tune. "They sayin what they say," he answered.
"Look out for coloureds cruisin in cars. Now if she was black, man, it'd
be 'No grounds fi suspec racial motive.' I tell you," he went on,
dropping the accent, "sometimes the level of aggression bubbling just
under the skin of this town gets me really scared. It's not just the damn
Granny Ripper. It's everywhere. You bump into a guy's newspaper in a
rush-hour train and you can get your face broken. Everybody's so
goddamn angry, seems like to me. Including, old friend, you," he
finished, noticing. Jumpy stood, excused himself, and walked out
without an explanation. Hanif spread his arms, gave Anahita his most
winsome smile: "What'd I do?"
Anahita smiled back sweetly. "Dju ever think, Hanif, that maybe people
don't like you very much?"
When it became known that the Granny Ripper had struck again,
suggestions that the solution to the hideous killings of old women by a
"human fiend", -- who invariably arranged his victims' internal organs
neatly around their corpses, one lung by each ear, and the heart, for
obvious reasons, in the mouth, -- would most likely be found by
investigating the new occultism among the city's blacks which was
giving the authorities so much cause for concern, -- began to be heard
with growing frequency. The detention and interrogation of "tints"
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intensified accordingly, as did the incidence of snap raids on
establishments "suspected of harbouring underground occultist cells".
What was happening, although nobody admitted it or even, at first,
understood, was that everyone, black brown white, had started thinking
of the dream-figure as _real_, as a being who had crossed the frontier,
evading the normal controls, and was now roaming loose about the city.
Illegal migrant, outlaw king, foul criminal or race--hero, Saladin
Chamcha was getting to be true. Stories rushed across the city in every
direction: a physiotherapist sold a shaggy--dog tale to the Sundays, was
not believed, but _no smoke without fire_, people said; it was a
precarious state of affairs, and it couldn't be long before the raid on
the Shaandaar Cafe that would send the whole thing higher than the
sky. Priests became involved, adding another unstable element -- the
linkage between the term _black_ and the sin _blasphemy_--to the mix.
In his attic, slowly, Saladin Chamcha grew.
He chose Lucretius over Ovid. The inconstant soul, the mutability of
everything, das Ich, every last speck. A being going through life can
become so other to himself as to _be another_, discrete, severed from
history. He thought, at times, of Zeeny Vakil on that other planet,
Bombay, at the far rim of the galaxy: Zeeny, eclecticism, hybridity. The
optimism of those ideas! The certainty on which they rested: of will, of
choice! But, Zeeny mine, life just happens to you: like an accident. No:
it happens to you as a result of your condition. Not choice, but -- at
best -- process, and, at worst, shocking, total change. Newness: he had
sought a different kind, but this was what he got.
Bitterness, too, and hatred, all these coarse things. He would enter into
his new self; he would be what he had become: loud, stenchy, hideous,
outsize, grotesque, inhuman, powerful. He had the sense of being able
to stretch out a little finger and topple church spires with the force
growing in him, the anger, the anger, the anger. _Powers_.
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He was looking for someone to blame. He, too, dreamed; and in his
dreams, a shape, a face, was floating closer, ghostly still, unclear, but
one day soon he would be able to call it by its name.
_I am_, he accepted, _that I am_.
Submission.
His cocooned life at the Shaandaar B and B blew apart the evening
Hanif Johnson came in shouting that they had arrested Uhuru Simba
for the Granny Ripper murders, and the word was they were going to lay
the Black Magic thing on him too, he was going to be the voodoo-priest
baron-samedi fall guy, and the reprisals -- beatings--up, attacks on
property, the usual -- were already beginning. "Lock your doors," Hanif
told Sufyan and Hind. "There's a bad night ahead."
Hanif was standing slap in the centre of the cafe, confident of the effect
of the news he was bringing, so when Hind came across to him and hit
him in the face with all her strength he was so unprepared for the blow
that he actually fainted, more from surprise than pain. He was revived
by Jumpy, who threw a glass of water at him the way he had been taught
to do by the movies, but by then Hind was hurling his office equipment
down into the street from upstairs; typewriter ribbons and red ribbons,
too, the sort used for securing legal documents, made festive streamers
in the air. Anahita Sufyan, unable any more to resist the demonic
proddings of her jealousy, had told Hind about Mishal's relations with
the up--and--coming lawyer-politico, and after that there had been no
holding Hind, all the years of her humiliation had come pouring out of
her, it wasn't enough that she was stuck in this country full of jews and
strangers who lumped her in with the negroes, it wasn't enough that
her husband was a weakling who performed the Haj but couldn't be
bothered with godliness in his own home, but this had to happen to her
304
also; she went at Mishal with a kitchen knife and her daughter
responded by "unleashing a painful series of kicks and jabs, self-
defence only, otherwise it would have been matricide for sure. -- Hanif
regained consciousness and Haji Sufyan looked down on him, moving
his hands in small helpless circles by his sides, weeping openly, unable
to find consolation in learning, because whereas for most Muslims a
journey to Mecca was the great blessing, in his case it had turned out to
be the beginning of a curse; -- "Go," he said, "Hanif, my friend, get
out," -- but Hanif wasn't going without having his say, _I've kept my
mouth shut for too long_, he cried, _you people who call yourself so
moral while you make fortunes off the misery of your own race_,
whereupon it became clear that Haji Sufyan had never known of the
prices being charged by his wife, who had not told him, swearing her
daughters to secrecy with terrible and binding oaths, knowing that if he
discovered he'd find a way of giving the money back so that they could
go on rotting in poverty; -- and he, the twinkling familiar spirit of the
Shaandaar Cafe, after that lost all love of life. -- And now Mishal arrived
in the cafe, O the shame of a family's inner life being enacted thus, like
a cheap drama, before the eyes of paying customers, -- although in
point of fact the last tea— drinker was hurrying from the scene as fast as
her old legs would carry her. Mishal was carrying bags. "I'm leaving,
too," she announced. "Try and stop me. It's only eleven days."
When Hind saw her elder daughter on the verge of walking out of her
life forever, she understood the price one pays for harbouring the
Prince of Darkness under one's roof. She begged her husband to see
reason, to realize that his good-hearted generosity had brought them
into this hell, and that if only that devil, Chamcha, could be removed
from the premises, then maybe they could become once again the happy
and industrious family of old. As she finished speaking, however, the
house above her head began to rumble and shake, and there was the
noise of something coming down the stairs, growling and -- or so it
305
seemed -- singing, in a voice so vilely hoarse that it was impossible to
understand the words.
It was Mishal who went up to meet him in the end, Mishal with Hanif
Johnson holding her hand, while the treacherous Anahita watched from
the foot of the stairs. Chamcha had grown to a height of over eight feet,
and from his nostrils there emerged smoke of two different colours,
yellow from the left, and from the right, black. He was no longer
wearing clothes. His bodily hair had grown thick and long, his tail was
swishing angrily, his eyes were a pale but luminous red, and he had
succeeded in terrifying the entire temporary population of the bed and
breakfast establishment to the point of incoherence. Mishal, however,
was not too scared to talk. "Where do you think you're going?" she
asked him. "You think you'd last five minutes out there, looking like
you do?" Chamcha paused, looked himself over, observed the sizeable
erection emerging from his loins, and shrugged. "I am _considering
action_," he told her, using her own phrase, although in that voice of
lava and thunder it didn't seem to belong to her any more. "There is a
person I wish to find."
"Hold your horses," Mishal told him. "We'll work something out."
What is to be found here, one mile from the Shaandaar, here where the
beat meets the street, at Club Hot Wax, formerly the Blak-An-Tan? On
this star-crossed and moonless night, let us follow the figures -- some
strutting, decked out, hot-to-trot, others surreptitious, shadow-
hugging, shy -- converging from all quarters of the neighbourhood to
dive, abruptly, underground, and through this unmarked door. What's
within? Lights, fluids, powders, bodies shaking themselves, singly, in
pairs, in threes, moving towards possibilities. But what, then, are these
other figures, obscure in the on--off rainbow brilliance of the space,
these forms frozen in their attitudes amid the frenzied dancers? What
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are these that hip-hop and hindi-pop but never move an inch? -- "You
lookin good, Hot Wax posse!" Our host speaks: ranter, toaster, deejay
nonpareil -- the prancing Pinkwalla, his suit of lights blushing to the
beat. -- Truly, he is exceptional, a seven--foot albino, his hair the palest
rose, the whites of his eyes likewise, his features unmistakably Indian,
the haughty nose, long thin lips, a face from a _Hamza-nama_ cloth. An
Indian who has never seen India, East--India--man from the West
Indies, white black man. A star.
Still the motionless figures dance between the shimmying of sisters, the
jouncing and bouncing of youth. What are they? -- Why, waxworks,
nothing more. -- Who are they? -- History. See, here is Mary Seacole,
who did as much in the Crimea as another magic-lamping Lady, but,
being dark, could scarce be seen for the flame of Florence's candle; --
and, over there!, one Abdul Karim, aka The Munshi, whom Queen
Victoria sought to promote, but who was done down by colour-barring
ministers. They're all here, dancing motionlessly in hot wax: the black
clown of Septimius Severus, to the right; to the left, George IV's barber
dancing with the slave, Grace Jones. Ukawsaw Gronniosaw, the African
prince who was sold for six feet of cloth, dances according to his
ancient fashion with the slave's son Ignatius Sancho, who became in
1782 the first African writer to be published in England. -- The
migrants of the past, as much the living dancers' ancestors as their own
flesh and blood, gyrate stilly while Pinkwalla rants toasts raps up on
the stage, _Now-mi-feel - indignation-when-dem-talk-immigration-
when-dem-make-insinuation - we-no-part-a-de-nation-an-mi-make-
pro clamat ion -a-de-t rue-situation -how- we-make-contribut ion -sin ce-de-
Rome-Occupation_, and from a different part of the crowded room,
bathed in evil green light, wax villains cower and grimace: Mosley,
Powell, Edward Long, all the local avatars of Legree. And now a murmur
begins in the belly of the Club, mounting, becoming a single word,
chanted over and over: "Meltdown," the customers demand.
"Meltdown, meltdown, melt."
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Pinkwalla takes his cue from the crowd, _So-it-meltdown-time-when-de-
men-of-crime-gonna-get-in-line-for-some-hell-fi re-fr yin_, after which
he turns to the crowd, arms wide, feet with the beat, to ask, _Who"s-it-
gonna-be? Who-you-wanna-see?_ Names are shouted, compete, coalesce,
until the assembled company is united once more, chanting a single
word. Pinkwalla claps his hands. Curtains part behind him, allowing
female attendants in shiny pink shorts and singlets to wheel out a
fearsome cabinet: man--sized, glass-- fronted, internally—illuminated --
the microwave oven, complete with Hot Seat, known to Club regulars
as: Hell's Kitchen. "All _right_," cries Pinkwalla. "Now we really
cookin."
Attendants move towards the tableau of hate-figures, pounce upon the
night's sacrificial offering, the one most often selected, if truth be told;
at least three times a week. Her permawaved coiffure, her pearls, her
suit of blue. _Maggie-maggie-maggie_, bays the crowd. _Burn-burn-
burn_. The doll, -- the _guy_, -- is strapped into the Hot Seat. Pinkwalla
throws the switch. And O how prettily she melts, from the inside out,
crumpling into formlessness. Then she is a puddle, and the crowd sighs
its ecstasy: done. "The fire this time," Pinkwalla tells them. Music
regains the night.
When Pinkwalla the deejay saw what was climbing under cover of
darkness into the back of his panel van, which his friends Hanif and
Mishal had persuaded him to bring round the back of the Shaandaar,
the fear of obeah filled his heart; but there was also the contrary
exhilaration of realizing that the potent hero of his many dreams was a
flesh-and-blood actuality. He stood across the street, shivering under a
lamp--post though it wasn't particularly cold, and stayed there for half
an hour while Mishal and Hanif spoke urgently to him, _he needs
somewhere to go, we have to think about his future_. Then he shrugged,
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walked over to the van, and started up the engine. Hanif sat beside him
in the cab; Mishal travelled with Saladin, hidden from view.
It was almost four in the morning when they bedded Chamcha down in
the empty, locked-up nightclub. Pinkwalla -- his real name, Sewsunker,
was never used -- had unearthed a couple of sleeping-bags from a back
room, and they sufficed. Hanif Johnson, saying goodnight to the
fearsome entity of whom his lover Mishal seemed entirely unafraid,
tried to talk to him seriously, "You've got to realize how important you
could be for us, there's more at stake here than your personal needs,"
but mutant Saladin only snorted, yellow and black, and Hanif backed
quickly away. When he was alone with the waxworks Chamcha was able
to fix his thoughts once again on the face that had finally coalesced in
his mind's eye, radiant, the light streaming out around him from a
point just behind his head, Mister Perfecto, portrayer of gods, who
always landed on his feet, was always forgiven his sins, loved, praised,
adored . . . the face he had been trying to identify in his dreams, Mr.
Gibreel Farishta, transformed into the simulacrum of an angel as surely
as he was the Devil's mirror--self.
Who should the Devil blame but the Archangel, Gibreel?
The creature on the sleeping--bags opened its eyes; smoke began to
issue from its pores. The face on every one of the waxwork dummies was
the same now, Gibreel's face with its widow's peak and its long thin
saturnine good looks. The creature bared its teeth and let out a long,
foul breath, and the waxworks dissolved into puddles and empty
clothes, all of them, every one. The creature lay back, satisfied. And.
fixed its mind upon its foe.
Whereupon it felt within itself the most inexplicable sensations of
compression, suction, withdrawal; it was racked by terrible, squeezing
pains, and emitted piercing squeals that nobody, not even Mishal who
was staying with Hanif in Pinkwalla's apartment above the Club, dared
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co investigate. The pains mounted in intensity, and the creature
thrashed and tossed around the dancefloor, wailing most piteously;
until, at length, granted respite, it fell asleep.
When Mishal, Hanif and Pinkwalla ventured into the clubroom several
hours later, they observed a scene of frightful devastation, tables sent
flying, chairs broken in half, and, of course, every waxwork -- good and
evil -- Topsy and Legree -- melted like tigers into butter; and at the
centre of the carnage, sleeping like a baby, no mythological creature at
all, no iconic Thing of horns and hellsbreath, but Mr. Saladin Chamcha
himself, apparently restored to his old shape, mother-naked but of
entirely human aspect and proportions, _humanized_ -- is there any
option but to conclude? -- by the fearsome concentration of his hate.
He opened his eyes; which still glowed pale and red.
Alleluia Cone, coming down from Everest, saw a city of ice to the west
of Camp Six, across the Rock Band, glittering in the sunlight below the
massifofCho Oyu. _Shangri-La_, she momentarily thought; however,
this was no green vale of immortality but a metropolis of gigantic ice--
needles, thin, sharp and cold. Her attention was distracted by Sherpa
Pemba warning her to maintain her concentration, and the city had
gone when she looked back. She was still at twenty-seven thousand feet,
but the apparition of the impossible city threw her back across space
and time to the Bayswater study of old dark wooden furniture and
heavy velvet curtains in which her father Otto Cone, the art historian
and biographer of Picabia, had spoken to her in her fourteenth and his
final year of "the most dangerous of all the lies we are fed in our lives",
which was, in his opinion, the idea of the continuum. "Anybody ever
tries to tell you how this most beautiful and most evil of planets is
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somehow homogeneous, composed only of reconcilable elements, that it
all _adds up_, you get on the phone to the straitjacket tailor," he
advised her, managing to give the impression of having visited more
planets than one before coming to his conclusions. "The world is
incompatible, just never forget it: gaga. Ghosts, Nazis, saints, all alive
at the same time; in one spot, blissful happiness, while down the road,
the inferno. You can't ask for a wilder place." Ice cities on the roof of
the world wouldn't have fazed Otto. Like his wife Alicja, Allie's mother,
he was a Polish emigre, a survivor of a wartime prison camp whose
name was never mentioned throughout Allie's childhood. "He wanted
to make it as if it had not been," Alicja told her daughter later. "He was
unrealistic in many ways. But a good man; the best I knew." She smiled
an inward smile as she spoke, tolerating him in memory as she had not
always managed to during his life, when he was frequently appalling.
For example: he developed a hatred of communism which drove him to
embarrassing extremes of behaviour, notably at Christmas, when this
Jewish man insisted on celebrating with his Jewish family and others
what he described as "an English rite", as a mark of respect to their new
"host nation" -- and then spoiled it all (in his wife's eyes) by bursting
into the salon where the assembled company was relaxing in the glow of
log fire, Christmas tree lights and brandy, got up in pantomime Chinee,
with droopy moustaches and all, crying: "Father Christmas is dead! I
have killed him! I am The Mao: no presents for anyone! Hee! Hee!
Hee!" Allie on Everest, remembering, winced -- her mother's wince, she
realized, transferred to her frosted face.
The incompatibility of life's elements: in a tent at Camp Four, 27,600
feet, the idea which seemed at times to be her father's daemon sounded
banal, emptied of meaning, of _atmosphere_, by the altitude. "Everest
silences you," she confessed to Gibreel Far-- ishta in a bed above which
parachute silk formed a canopy of hollow Himalayas. "When you come
down, nothing seems worth saying, nothing at all. You find the
nothingness wrapping you up, like a sound. Non-being. You can't keep
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it up, of course. The world rushes in soon enough. What shuts you up
is, I think, the sight you've had of perfection: why speak if you can't
manage perfect thoughts, perfect sentences? It feels like a betrayal of
what you've been through. But it fades; you accept that certain
compromises, closures, are required if you're to continue." They spent
most of their time in bed during their first weeks together: the appetite
of each for the other seemingly inexhaustible, they made love six or
seven times a day. "You opened me up," she told him. "You with the
ham in your mouth. It was exactly as if you were speaking to me, as if I
could read your thoughts. Not as if," she amended. "I did read them,
right?" He nodded: it was true. "I read your thoughts and the right
words just came out of my mouth," she marvelled. "Just flowed out.
Bingo: love. In the beginning was the word."
Her mother took a fatalistic view of this dramatic turn of events in
Allie's life, the return of a lover from beyond the grave. "I'll tell you
what I honestly thought when you gave me the news," she said over
lunchtime soup and kreplach at the Whitechapel Bloom's. "I thought,
oh dear, it's grand passion; poor Allie has to go through this now, the
unfortunate child." Alicja's strategy was to keep her emotions strictly
under control. She was a tall, ample woman with a sensual mouth but,
as she put it, "I've never been a noise--maker." She was frank with Allie
about her sexual passivity, and revealed that Otto had been, "Let's say,
otherwise inclined. He had a weakness for grand passion, but it always
made him so miserable I could not get worked up about it." She had
been reassured by her knowledge that the women with whom her little,
bald, jumpy husband consorted were "her type", big and buxom,
"except they were brassy, too: they did what he wanted, shouting things
out to spur him on, pretending for all they were worth; it was his
enthusiasm they responded to, I think, and maybe his chequebook, too.
He was of the old school and gave generous gifts."
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Otto had called Alleluia his "pearl without price", and dreamed for her
a great future, as maybe a concert pianist or, failing that, a Muse. "Your
sister, frankly, is a disappointment to me," he said three weeks before
his death in that study of Great Books and Picabian bric-a-brac -- a
stuffed monkey which he claimed was a "first draft" of the notorious
_Portrait of Cezanne, Portrait of Rembrandt, Portrait of Renoir_,
numerous mechanical contraptions including sexual stimulators that
delivered small electric shocks, and a first edition of Jarry's _Ubu Roi_.
"Elena has wants where she should have thoughts." He Anglicized the
name -- Yelyena into Ellaynah --just as it had been his idea to reduce
"Alleluia" to Allie and bowdlerize himself, Cohen from Warsaw, into
Cone. Echoes of the past distressed him; he read no Polish literature,
turning his back on Herbert, on Milosz, on "younger fellows" like
Baranczak, because for him the language was irredeemably polluted by
history. "I am English now," he would say proudly in his thick East
European accent. "Silly mid-offl Pish-Tush! Widow of Windsor! Bugger
all." In spite of his reticences he seemed content enough being a
pantomime member of the English gentry. In retrospect, though, it
looked likely that he'd been only too aware of the fragility of the
performance, keeping the heavy drapes almost permanently drawn in
case the inconsistency of things caused him to see monsters out there,
or moonscapes instead of the familiar Moscow Road.
"He was strictly a melting--pot man," Alicja said while attacking a large
helping of tsimmis. "When he changed our name I told him, Otto, it
isn't required, this isn't America, it's London W-- two; but he wanted to
wipe the slate clean, even his Jewishness, excuse me but I know. The
fights with the Board of Deputies! All very civilized, parliamentary
language throughout, but bareknuckle stuff none the less." After his
death she went straight back to Cohen, the synagogue, Chanukah and
Bloom's. "No more imitation of life," she munched, and waved a
sudden, distracted fork. "That picture. I was crazy for it. Lana Turner,
am I right? And Mahalia Jackson singing in a church."
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Otto Cone as a man of seventy-plus jumped into an empty lift-shaft and
died. Now there was a subject which Alicja, who would readily discuss
most taboo matters, refused to touch upon: why does a survivor of the
camps live forty years and then complete the job the monsters didn't
get done? Does great evil eventually triumph, no matter how
strenuously it is resisted? Does it leave a sliver of ice in the blood,
working its way through until it hits the heart? Or, worse: can a man's
death be incompatible with his life? Allie, whose first response on
learning of her father's death had been fury, flung such questions as
these at her mother. Who, stonefaced beneath a wide black hat, said
only: "You have inherited his lack of restraint, my dear."
After Otto's death Alicja ditched the elegant high style of dress and
gesture which had been her offering on the altar of his lust for
integration, her attempt to be his Cecil Beaton grande dame. "Phoo,"
she confided in Allie, "what a relief, my dear, to be shapeless for a
change." She now wore her grey hair in a straggly bun, put on a
succession of identical floral-print supermarket dresses, abandoned
make-up, got herself a painful set of false teeth, planted vegetables in
what Otto had insisted should be an English floral garden (neat
flowerbeds around the central, symbolic tree, a "chimeran graft" of
laburnum and broom) and gave, instead of dinners full of cerebral chat,
a series of lunches -- heavy stews and a minimum of three outrageous
puddings -- at which dissident Hungarian poets told convoluted jokes
to Gurdjieffian mystics, or (if things didn't quite work out) the guests
sat on cushions on the floor, staring gloomily at their loaded plates,
and something very like total silence reigned for what felt like weeks.
Allie eventually turned away from these Sunday afternoon rituals,
sulking in her room until she was old enough to move out, with Alicja's
ready assent, and from the path chosen for her by the father whose
betrayal of his own act of survival had angered her so much. She turned
towards action; and found she had mountains to climb.
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Alicja Cohen, who had found Allie's change of course perfectly
comprehensible, even laudable, and rooted for her all the way, could
not (she admitted over coffee) quite see her daughter's point in the
matter of Gibreel Farishta, the revenant Indian movie star. "To hear
you talk, dear, the man's not in your league," she said, using a phrase
she believed to be synonymous with _not your type_, and which she
would have been horrified to hear described as a racial, or religious,
slur: which was inevitably the sense in which her daughter understood
it. "That's just fine by me," Allie riposted with spirit, and rose. "The
fact is, I don't even like my league."
Her feet ached, obliging her to limp, rather than storm, from the
restaurant. "Grand passion," she could hear her mother behind her
back announcing loudly to the room at large. "The gift of tongues;
means a girl can babble out any blasted thing."
Certain aspects of her education had been unaccountably neglected.
One Sunday not long after her father's death she was buying the
Sunday papers from the corner kiosk when the vendor announced: "It's
the last week this week. Twenty--three years I've been on this corner and
the Pakis have finally driven me out of business." She heard the word
_p-a-c-h-y_, and had a bizarre vision of elephants lumbering down the
Moscow Road, flattening Sunday news vendors. "What's a pachy?" she
foolishly asked and the reply was stinging: "A brown Jew." She went on
thinking of the proprietors of the local "C TN" (confectioner--
tobacconist-- newsagent) as _pach yderms_ for quite a while: as people
set apart -- rendered objectionable -- by the nature of their skin. She
told Gibreel this story, too. "Oh," he responded, crushingly, "an
elephant joke." He wasn't an easy man.
But there he was in her bed, this big vulgar fellow for whom she could
open as she had never opened before; he could reach right into her chest
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and caress her heart. Not for many years had she entered the sexual
arena with such celerity, and never before had so swift a liaison
remained wholly untainted by regret or self--disgust. His extended
silence (she took it for that until she learned that his name was on the
_Bostan"s_ passenger list) had been sharply painful, suggesting a
difference in his estimation of their encounter; but to have been
mistaken about his desire, about such an abandoned, hurtling thing,
was surely impossible? The news of his death accordingly provoked a
double response: on the one hand, there was a kind of grateful, relieved
joy to be had from the knowledge that he had been racing across the
world to surprise her, that he had given up his entire life in order to
construct a new one with her; while, on the other, there was the hollow
grief of being deprived of him in the very moment of knowing that she
truly had been loved. Later, she became aware of a further, less
generous, reaction. What had he thought he was doing, planning to
arrive without a word of warning on her doorstep, assuming that she'd
be waiting with open arms, an unencumbered life, and no doubt a large
enough apartment for them both? It was the kind of behaviour one
would expect of a spoiled movie actor who expects his desires simply to
fall like ripe fruits into his lap ... in short, she had felt invaded, or
potentially invaded. But then she had rebuked herself, pushing such
notions back down into the pit where they belonged, because after all
Gibreel had paid heavily for his presumption, if presumption it was. A
dead lover deserves the benefit of the doubt.
Then there he lay at her feet, unconscious in the snow, taking her
breath away with the impossibility of his being there at all, leading her
momentarily to wonder if he might not be another in the series of
visual aberrations -- she preferred the neutral phrase to the more loaded
_visions_ -- by which she'd been plagued ever since her decision to
scorn oxygen cylinders and conquer Chomolungma on lung power
alone. The effort of raising him, slinging his arm around her shoulders
and half-carrying him to her flat -- more than half, if the truth be told -
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- fully persuaded her that he was no chimera, but heavy flesh and blood.
Her feet stung her all the way home, and the pain reawakened all the
resentments she'd stifled when she thought him dead. What was she
supposed to do with him now, the lummox, sprawled out across her
bed? God, but she'd forgotten what a sprawler the man was, how during
the night he colonized your side of the bed and denuded you entirely of
bedclothes. But other sentiments, too, had re-emerged, and these won
the day; for here he was, sleeping beneath her protection, the
abandoned hope: at long last, love.
He slept almost round the clock for a week, waking up only to satisfy
the minimum requirements of hunger and hygiene, saying almost
nothing. His sleep was tormented: he thrashed about the bed, and
words occasionally escaped his lips: _Jahilia, Al-Lat, Hind_. In his
waking moments he appeared to wish to resist sleep, but it claimed him,
waves of it rolling over him and drowning him while he, almost
piteously, waved a feeble arm. She was unable to guess what traumatic
events might have given rise to such behaviour, and, feeling a little
alarmed, telephoned her mother. Alicja arrived to inspect the sleeping
Gibreel, pursed her lips, and pronounced: "He's a man possessed." She
had receded more and more into a kind of Singer Brothers dybbukery,
and her mysticism never failed to exasperate her pragmatic, mountain-
climbing daughter. "Use maybe a suction pump on his ear," Alicja
recommended. "That's the exit these creatures prefer." Allie shepherded
her mother out of the door. "Thanks a lot," she said. "I'll let you
know."
On the seventh day he came wide awake, eyes popping open like a
doll's, and instantly reached for her. The crudity of the approach made
her laugh almost as much as its unexpectedness, but once again there
was that feeling of naturalness, of Tightness; she grinned, "Okay, you
asked for it," and slipped out of the baggy, elasticated maroon
pantaloons and loose jacket -- she disliked clothes that revealed the
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contours of her body -- and that was the beginning of the sexual
marathon that left them both sore, happy and exhausted when it finally
ground to a halt.
He told her: he fell from the sky and lived. She took a deep breath and
believed him, because of her father's faith in the myriad and
contradictory possibilities of life, and because, too, of what the
mountain had taught her. "Okay," she said, exhaling. "I'll buy it. Just
don't tell my mother, all right?" The universe was a place of wonders,
and only habituation, the anaesthesia of the everyday, dulled our sight.
She had read, a couple of days back, that as part of their natural
processes of combustion, the stars in the skies crushed carbon into
diamonds. The idea of the stars raining diamonds into the void: that
sounded like a miracle, too. If that could happen, so could this. Babies
fell out of zillionthfloor windows and bounced. There was a scene about
that in Francois Truffaut's movie _L"Argent du Poche_ . . . She focused
her thoughts. "Sometimes," she decided to say, "wonderful things
happen to me, too."
She told him then what she had never told any living being: about the
visions on Everest, the angels and the ice--city. "It wasn't only on
Everest, either," she said, and continued after a hesitation. When she
got back to London, she went for a walk along the Embankment to try
and get him, as well as the mountain, out of her blood. It was early in
the morning and there was the ghost of a mist and the thick snow made
everything vague. Then the icebergs came.
There were ten of them, moving in stately single file upriver. The mist
was thicker around them, so it wasn't until they sailed right up to her
that she understood their shapes, the precisely miniaturized
configurations of the ten highest mountains in the world, in ascending
order, with her mountain, _the_ mountain bringing up the rear. She
was trying to work out how the icebergs had managed to pass under the
bridges across the river when the mist thickened, and then, a few
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instants later, dissolved entirely, taking the icebergs with it. "But they
were there," she insisted to Gibreel. "Nanga Parbat, Dhaulagiri,
Xixabangma Feng." .He didn't argue. "If you say it, then I know it truly
was so."
An iceberg is water striving to be land; a mountain, especially a
Himalaya, especially Everest, is land's attempt to metamorphose into
sky; it is grounded flight, the earth mutated -- nearly -- into air, and
become, in the true sense, exalted. Long before she ever encountered the
mountain, Allie was aware of its brooding presence in her soul. Her
apartment was full of Himalayas. Representations of Everest in cork, in
plastic, in tile, stone, acrylics, brick jostled for space; there was even
one sculpted entirely out of ice, a tiny berg which she kept in the
freezer and brought out from time to time to show off to friends. Why
so many? _Because_ -- no other possible answer -- _they were there_.
"Look," she said, stretching out a hand without leaving the bed and
picking up, from her bedside table, her newest acquisition, a simple
Everest in weathered pine. "A gift from the sherpas of Namche Bazar."
Gibreel took it, turned it in his hands. Pemba had offered it to her shyly
when they said goodbye, insisting it was from all the sherpas as a group,
although it was evident that he'd whittled it himself. It was a detailed
model, complete with the ice fall and the Hillary Step that is the last
great obstacle on the way to the top, and the route they had taken to
the summit was scored deeply into the wood. When Gibreel turned it
upside down he found a message, scratched into the base in painstaking
English. _To Ali Bibi. We were luck. Not to try again_.
What Allie did not tell Gibreel was that the sherpa's prohibition had
scared her, convincing her that if she ever set her foot again upon the
goddess-mountain, she would surely die, because it is not permitted to
mortals to look more than once upon the face of the divine; but the
mountain was diabolic as well as transcendent, or, rather, its diabolism
and its transcendence were one, so that even the contemplation of
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Pemba's ban made her feel a pang of need so deep that it made her
groan aloud, as if in sexual ecstasy or despair. "The Himalayas," she
told Gibreel so as not to say what was really on her mind, "are
emotional peaks as well as physical ones: like opera. That's what makes
them so awesome. Nothing but the giddiest heights. A hard trick to pull
off, though." Allie had a way of switching from the concrete to the
abstract, a trope so casually achieved as to leave the listener half--
wondering if she knew the difference between the two; or, very often,
unsure as to whether, finally, such a difference could be said to exist.
Allie kept to herself the knowledge that she must placate the mountain
or die, that in spite of the flat feet which made any serious
mountaineering out of the question she was still infected by Everest,
and that in her heart of hearts she kept hidden an impossible scheme,
the fatal vision of Maurice Wilson, never achieved to this day. That is:
the solo ascent.
What she did not confess: that she had seen Maurice Wilson since her
return to London, sitting among the chimneypots, a beckoning goblin
in plus-fours and tam-o"-shanter hat. -- Nor did Gibreel Farishta tell
her about his pursuit by the spectre of Rekha Merchant. There were still
closed doors between them for all their physical intimacy: each kept
secret a dangerous ghost. -- And Gibreel, on hearing of Allie's other
visions, concealed a great agitation behind his neutral words -- _if you
say it, then I know_ -- an agitation born of this further evidence that
the world of dreams was leaking into that of the waking hours, that the
seals dividing the two were breaking, and that at any moment the two
firmaments could be joined, -- that is to say, the end of all things was
near. One morning Allie, awaking from spent and dreamless sleep,
found him immersed in her long-unopened copy of Blake's _Marriage
of Heaven and Hell_, in which her younger self, disrespectful of books,
had made a number of marks: underlinings, ticks in the margins,
exclamations, multiple queries. Seeing that she had awoken, he read out
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a selection of these passages with a wicked grin. "From the Proverbs of
Hell," he began. "_The lust of the goat is the bounty of God_." She
blushed furiously. "And what is more," he continued, "_The ancient
tradition that the world will be consumed in fire at the end of six
thousand years is true, as I have heard from Hell_. Then, lower down
the page: _This will come to pass by an improvement of sensual
enjoyment_. Tell me, who is this? I found her pressed in the pages." He
handed her a dead woman's photograph: her sister, Elena, buried here
and forgotten. Another addict of visions; and a casualty of the habit.
"We don't talk about her much." She was kneeling unclothed on the
bed, her pale hair hiding her face. "Put her back where you found her."
_I saw no God, nor heard any, in a finite organical perception; but my
senses discover'd the infinite in every thing_. He riffled on through the
book, and replaced Elena Cone next to the image of the Regenerated
Man, sitting naked and splay-legged on a hill with the sun shining out
of his rear end. _I have always found that Angels have the vanity to
speak of themselves as the only wise_. Allie put her hands up and
covered her face. Gibreel tried to cheer her up. "You have written in the
flyleaf: 'Creation of world ace. Arch-- bish. Usher, 4004 BC. Estim'd
date of apocalypse, ..., 1996.' So time for improvement of sensual
enjoyment still remains." She shook her head: stop. He stopped. "Tell
me," he said, putting away the book.
Elena at twenty had taken London by storm. Her feral six-foot body
winking through a golden chain-mail Rabanne. She had always carried
herself with uncanny assurance, proclaiming her ownership of the
earth. The city was her medium, she could swim in it like a fish. She was
dead at twenty-one, drowned in a bathtub of cold water, her body full of
psychotropic drugs. Can one drown in one's element, Allie had
wondered long ago. If fish can drown in water, can human beings
suffocate in air? In those days Allie, eighteen — nineteen, had envied
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Elena her certainties. What was her element? In what periodic table of
the spirit could it be found? -- Now, flat-footed, Himalayan veteran, she
mourned its loss. When you have earned the high horizon it isn't easy
to go back into your box, into a narrow island, an eternity of
anticlimax. But her feet were traitors and the mountain would kill.
Mythological Elena, the cover girl, wrapped in couture plastics, had
been sure of her immortality. Allie, visiting her in her World's End
crashpad, refused a proffered sugar-lump, mumbled something about
brain damage, feeling inadequate, as usual in Elena's company. Her
sister's face, the eyes too wide apart, the chin too sharp, the effect
overwhelming, stared mockingly back. "No shortage of brain cells,"
Elena said. "You can spare a few." The spare capacity of the brain was
Elena's capital. She spent her cells like money, searching for her own
heights; trying, in the idiom of the day, to fly. Death, like life, came to
her coated in sugar.
She had tried to "improve" the younger Alleluia. "Hey, you're a great
looking kid, why hide it in those dungarees? I mean, God, darling,
you've got all the equipment in there." One night she dressed Allie up,
in an olive-green item composed of frills and absences that barely
covered her body-stockinged groin: _sugaring me like candy_, was
Allie's puritanical thought, _my own sister putting me on display in the
shop-window, thanks a lot_. They went to a gaming club full of ecstatic
lordlings, and Allie had left fast when Elena's attention was elsewhere.
A week later, ashamed of herself for being such a coward, for rejecting
her sister's attempt at intimacy, she sat on a beanbag at World's End
and confessed to Elena that she was no longer a virgin. Whereupon her
elder sister slapped her in the mouth and called her ancient names:
tramp, slut, tart. "Elena Cone never allows a man to lay a _finger_," she
yelled, revealing her ability to think of herself as a third person, "not a
goddamn fingernail. I know what I'm worth, darling, I know how the
mystery dies the moment they put their willies in, I should have known
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you'd turn out to be a whore. Some fucking communist, I suppose," she
wound down. She had inherited her father's prejudices in such matters.
Allie, as Elena knew, had not.
They hadn't met much after that, Elena remaining until her death the
virgin queen of the city -- the post-mortem confirmed her as _virgo
intacta_ -- while Allie gave up wearing underwear, took odd jobs on
small, angry magazines, and because her sister was untouchable she
became the other thing, every sexual act a slap in her sibling's
glowering, whitelipped face. Three abortions in two years and the
belated knowledge that her days on the contraceptive pill had put her,
as far as cancer was concerned, in one of the highest-risk categories of
all.
She heard about her sister's end from a newsstand billboard, MODEL'S
"ACID BATH" DEATH. You're not even safe from puns when you die,
was her first reaction. Then she found she was unable to weep.
"I kept seeing her in magazines for months," she told Gibreel. "On
account of the glossies' long lead times." Elena's corpse danced across
Moroccan deserts, clad only in diaphanous veils; or it was sighted in the
Sea of Shadows on the moon, naked except for spaceman's helmet and
half a dozen silk ties knotted around breasts and groin. Allie took to
drawing moustaches on the pictures, to the outrage of newsagents; she
ripped her late sister out of the journals of her zombie-like undeath and
crumpled her up. Haunted by Elena's periodical ghost, Allie reflected
on the dangers of attempting to _fly_; what flaming falls, what macabre
hells were reserved for such Icarus types! She came to think of Elena as
a soul in torment, to believe that this captivity in an immobile world of
girlie calendars in which she wore black breasts of moulded plastic,
three sizes larger than her own; of pseudo--erotic snarls; of advertising
messages printed across her navel, was no less than Elena's personal
hell. Allie began to see the scream in her sister's eyes, the anguish of
being trapped forever in those fashion spreads. Elena was being
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tortured by demons, consumed in fires, and she couldn't even move.. .
after a time Allie had to avoid the shops in which her sister could be
found staring from the racks. She lost the ability to open magazines,
and hid all the pictures of Elena she owned. "Goodbye, Yel," she told
her sister's memory, using her old nursery name. "I've got to look away
from you."
"But I turned out to be like her, after all." Mountains had begun to sing
to her; whereupon she, too, had risked brain cells in search of
exaltation. Eminent physicians expert in the problems facing
mountaineers had frequently proved, beyond reasonable doubt, that
human beings could not survive without breathing apparatus much
above eight thousand metres. The eyes would haemorrhage beyond hope
of repair, and the brain, too, would start to explode, losing cells by the
billion, too many and too fast, resulting in the permanent damage
known as High Altitude Deterioration, followed in quick time by death.
Blind corpses would remain preserved in the permafrost of those
highest slopes. But Allie and Sherpa Pemba went up and came down to
tell the talc. Cells from the brain's deposit boxes replaced the current--
account casualties. Nor did her eyes blow out. Why had the scientists
been wrong? "Prejudice, mostly," Allie said, lying curled around Gibreel
beneath parachute silk. "They can't quantify the will, so they leave it
out of their calculations. But it's will that gets you up Everest, will and
anger, and it can bend any law of nature you care to mention, at least in
the short term, gravity not excluded. If you don't push your luck,
anyway."
There had been some damage. She had been suffering unaccountable
lapses of memory: small, unpredictable things. Once at the
fishmonger's she had forgotten the word _fish_. Another morning she
found herself in her bathroom picking up a toothbrush blankly, quite
unable to work out its purpose. And one morning, waking up beside the
sleeping Gibreel, she had been on the verge of shaking him awake to
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demand, "Who the hell are you? How did you get in my bed?" -- when,
just in time, the memory returned. "I'm hoping it's temporary," she
told him. But kept to herself, even now, the appearances of Maurice
Wilson's ghost on the rooftops surrounding the Fields, waving his
inviting arm.
She was a competent woman, formidable in many ways: very much the
professional sportswoman of the 1980s, a client of the giant MacMurray
public relations agency, sponsored to the gills. Nowadays she, too,
appeared in advertisements, promoting her own range of outdoor
products and leisurewear, aimed at holidaymakers and amateurs more
than pro climbers, to maximize what Hal Valance would have called the
universe. She was the golden girl from the roof of the world, the
survivor of "my Teutonic twosome", as Otto Cone had been fond of
calling his daughters. _Once again, Yel, I follow in your footsteps_. To
be an attractive woman in a sport dominated by, well, hairy men was to
be saleable, and the "icequeen" image didn't hurt either. There was
money in it, and now that she was old enough to compromise her old,
fiery ideals with no more than a shrug and a laugh, she was ready to
make it, ready, even, to appear on TV talk-shows to fend off, with risque
hints, the inevitable and unchanging questions about life with the boys
at twenty-odd thousand feet. Such highprofile capers sat uneasily
alongside the view of herself to which she still fiercely clung: the idea
that she was a natural solitary, the most private of women, and that the
demands of her business life were ripping her in half. She had her first
fight with Gibreel over this, because he said, in his unvarnished way: "I
guess it's okay to run from the cameras as long as you know they're
chasing after you. But suppose they stop? My guess is you'd turn and
run the other way." Later, when they'd made up, she teased him with
her growing stardom (since she became the first sexually attractive
blonde to conquer Everest, the noise had increased considerably, she
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received photographs of gorgeous hunks in the mail, also invitations to
high life soirees and a quantity of insane abuse): "I could be in movies
myself now that you've retired. Who knows? Maybe I will." To which he
responded, shocking her by the force of his words, "Over my goddamn
dead body."
In spite of her pragmatic willingness to enter the polluted waters of the
real and swim in the general direction of the current, she never lost the
sense that some awful disaster was lurking just around the corner -- a
legacy, this, of her father's and sister's sudden deaths. This hairs-on-
neck prickliness had made her a cautious climber, a "real percentage
man", as the lads would have it, and as admired friends died on various
mountains her caution increased. Away from mountaineering, it gave
her, at times, an unrelaxed look, a jumpiness; she acquired the heavily
defended air of a fortress preparing for an inevitable assault. This
added to her reputation as a frosty berg of a woman; people kept their
distance, and, to hear her tell it, she accepted loneliness as the price of
solitude. -- But there were more contradictions here, for she had, after
all, only recently thrown caution overboard when she chose to make the
final assault on Everest without oxygen. "Aside from all the other
implications," the agency assured her in its formal letter of
congratulations, "this humanizes you, it shows you've got that what--
the--hell streak, and that's a positive new dimension." They were
working on it. In the meantime, Allie thought, smiling at Gibreel in
tired encouragement as he slipped down towards her lower depths,
There's now you. Almost a total stranger and here you've gone and
moved right in. God, I even carried you across the threshold, near as
makes no difference. Can't blame you for accepting the lift.
He wasn't housetrained. Used to servants, he left clothes, crumbs, used
tea-bags where they fell. Worse: he _dropped_ them, actually let them
fall where they would need picking up; perfectly, richly unconscious of
what he was doing, he went on proving to himself that he, the poor boy
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from the streets, no longer needed to tidy up after himself. It wasn't the
only thing about him that drove her crazy. She'd pour glasses of wine;
he'd drink his fast and then, when she wasn't looking, grab hers,
placating her with an angelic--faced, ultra--innocent "Plenty more, isn't
it?" His bad behaviour around the house. He liked to fart. He
complained -- actually complained, after she'd literally scooped him out
of the snow! -- about the smallness of the accommodations. "Every time
I take two steps my face hits a wall." He was rude to telephone callers,
_really_ rude, without bothering to find out who they were:
automatically, the way film stars were in Bombay when, by some chance,
there wasn't a flunkey available to protect them from such intrusions.
After Alicja had weathered one such volley of obscene abuse, she said
(when her daughter finally got on the end of the phone): "Excuse me for
mentioning, darling, but your boyfriend is in my opinion a case."
"A case, mother?" This drew out Alicja's grandest voice. She was still
capable of grandeur, had a gift for it, in spite of her postOtto decision
to disguise herself as a bag-lady. "A case," she announced, taking into
consideration the fact that Gibreel was an Indian import, "of cashew
and monkey nuts."
Allie didn't argue with her mother, being by no means certain that she
could continue to live with Gibreel, even if he had crossed the earth,
even if he had fallen from the sky. The long term was hard to predict;
even the medium term looked cloudy. For the moment, she
concentrated on trying to get to know this man who had just assumed,
right off, that he was the great love of her life, with a lack of doubt that
meant he was either right or off his head. There were plenty of difficult
moments. She didn't know what he knew, what she could take for
granted: she tried, once, referring to Nabokov's doomed chess-player
Luzhin, who came to feel that in life as in chess there were certain
combinations that would inevitably arise to defeat him, as a way of
explaining by analogy her own (in fact somewhat different) sense of
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impending catastrophe (which had to do not with recurring patterns
but with the inescapability of the unforeseeable), but he fixed her with
a hurt stare that told her he'd never heard of the writer, let alone The
Defence. Conversely, he surprised her by asking, oUt of the blue, "Why
Picabia?" Adding that it was peculiar, was it not, for Otto Cohen, a
veteran of the terror camps, to go in for all that neo-Fascistic love of
machinery, brute power, dehumanization glorified. "Anybody who's
spent any time with machines at all," he added, "and baby, that's us all,
knows first and foremost there's only one thing certain about them,
computer or bicycle. They go wrong." Where did you find out about,
she began, and faltered because she didn't like the patronizing note she
was striking, but he answered without vanity. The first time he'd heard
about Marinetti, he said, he'd got the wrong end of the stick and
thought Futurism was something to do with puppets. "Marionettes,
kathputli, at that time I was keen to use advanced puppetry techniques
in a picture, maybe to depict demons or other supernormal beings. So I
got a book." _I got a book_: Gibreel the autodidact made it sound like
an injection. To a girl from a house that revered books -- her father had
made them all kiss any volume that fell by chance to the floor -- and
who had reacted by treating them badly, ripping out pages she wanted
or didn't like, scribbling and scratching at them to show them who was
boss, Gibreel's form of irreverence, non-abusive, taking books for what
they offered without feeling the need to genuflect or destroy, was
something new; and, she accepted, pleasing. She learned from him. He,
however, seemed impervious to any wisdom she might wish to impart,
about, for example, the correct place in which to dispose of dirty socks.
When she attempted to suggest he "did his share", he went into a
profound, injured sulk, expecting to be cajoled back into a good
humour. Which, to her disgust, she found herself willing, for the
moment at any rate, to do.
The worst thing about him, she tentatively concluded, was his genius
for thinking himself slighted, belittled, under attack. It became almost
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impossible to mention anything to him, no matter how reasonable, no
matter how gently put. "Go, go, eat air," he'd shout, and retire into the
tent of his wounded pride. -- And the most seductive thing about him
was the way he knew instinctively what she wanted, how when he chose
he could become the agent of her secret heart. As a result, their sex was
literally electric. That first tiny spark, on the occasion of their
inaugural kiss, wasn't any one-off. It went on happening, and
sometimes while they made love she was convinced she could hear the
crackle of electricity all around them; she felt, at times, her hair
standing on end. "It reminds me of the electric dildo in my father's
study," she told Gibreel, and they laughed. "Am I the love of your life?"
she asked quickly, and he answered, just as quickly: "Of course."
She admitted to him early on that the rumours about her
unattainability, even frigidity, had some basis in fact. "After Yel died, I
took on that side of her as well." She hadn't needed, any more, to hurl
lovers into her sister's face. "Plus I really wasn't enjoying it any more.
It was mostly revolutionary socialists at the time, making do with me
while they dreamed about the heroic women they'd seen on their three-
week trips to Cuba. Never touched them, of course; the combat fatigues
and ideological purity scared them silly. They came home humming
'Guantanamera' and rang me up." She opted out. "I thought, let the
best minds of my generation soliloquize about power over some other
poor woman's body, I'm off." She began climbing mountains, she used
to say when she began, "because I knew they'd never follow me up
there. But then I thought, bulishit. I didn't do it for them; I did it for
me."
For an hour every evening she would run barefoot up and down the
stairs to the street, on her toes, for the sake of her fallen arches. Then
she'd collapse into a heap of cushions, looking enraged, and he'd flap
helplessly around, usually ending up pouring her a stiff drink: Irish
whiskey, mostly. She had begun drinking a fair bit as the reality of her
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foot problem sank in. ("For Christ's sake keep the feet quiet," a voice
from the PR agency told her surreally on the phone. "If they get out it's
finito, curtains, sayonara, go home, goodnight.") On their twenty-first
night together, when she had worked her way through five doubles of
Jameson's, she said: "Why I really went up there. Don't laugh: to escape
from good and evil." He didn't laugh. "Are mountains above morality,
in your estimation?" he asked seriously. "This's what I learned in the
revolution," she went on. "This thing: information got abolished
sometime in the twentieth century, can't say just when; stands to
reason, that's part of the information that got aboish, abo_lished_.
Since then we've been living in a fairy--story. Got me? Everything
happens by magic. Us fairies haven't a fucking notion what's going on.
So how do we know if it's right or wrong? We don't even know what it
is. So what I thought was, you can either break your heart trying to
work it all out, or you can go sit on a mountain, because that's where
all the truth went, believe it or not, it just upped and ran away from
these cities where even the stuff under our feet is all made up, a lie, and
it hid up there in the thin thin air where the liars don't dare come after
it in case their brains explode. It's up there all right. I've been there.
Ask me." She fell asleep; he carried her to the bed.
After the news of his death in the plane crash reached her, she had
tormented herself by inventing him: by speculating, that is to say, about
her lost lover. He had been the first man she'd slept with in more than
five years: no small figure in her life. She had turned away from her
sexuality, her instincts having warned her that to do otherwise might be
to be absorbed by it; that it was for her, would always be, a big subject,
a whole dark continent to map, and she wasn't prepared to go that way,
be that explorer, chart those shores: not any more, or, maybe, not yet.
But she'd never shaken off the feeling of being damaged by her
ignorance of Love, of what it might be like to be wholly possessed by
that archetypal, capitalized djinn, the yearning towards, the blurring of
the boundaries of the self, the unbuttoning, until you were open from
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your adam"s-apple to your crotch: just words, because she didn't know
the thing. Suppose he had come to me, she dreamed. I could have
learned him, step by step, climbed him to the very summit. Denied
mountains by my weak-boned feet, I'd have looked for the mountain in
him: establishing base camp, sussing out routes, negotiating ice--falls,
crevasses, overhangs. I'd have assaulted the peak and seen the angels
dance. O, but he's dead, and at the bottom of the sea.
Then she found him. -- And maybe he'd invented her, too, a little bit,
invented someone worth rushing out of one's old life to love. --
Nothing so remarkable in that. Happens often enough; and the two
inventors go on, rubbing the rough edges off one another, adjusting
their inventions, moulding imagination to actuality, learning how to be
together: or not. It works out or it doesn't. But to suppose that Gibreel
Farishta and Alleluia Cone could have gone along so familiar a path is
to make the mistake of thinking their relationship ordinary. It wasn't;
didn't have so much as a shot at ordinariness.
It was a relationship with serious flaws.
("The modern city," Otto Cone on his hobbyhorse had lectured his
bored family at table, "is the locus classicus of incompatible realities.
Lives that have no business mingling with one another sit side by side
upon the omnibus. One universe, on a zebra crossing, is caught for an
instant, blinking like a rabbit, in the headlamps of a motor-vehicle in
which an entirely alien and contradictory continuum is to be found.
And as long as that's all, they pass in the night, jostling on Tube
stations, raising their hats in some hotel corridor, it's not so bad. But if
they meet! It's uranium and plutonium, each makes the other
decompose, boom." -- "As a matter of fact, dearest," Alicja said dryly, "I
often feel a little incompatible myself.")
The flaws in the grand passion of Alleluia Cone and Gibreel Farishta
were as follows: her secret fear of her secret desire, that is, love; -- owing
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co which she was wont to retreat from, even hit violently out at, the very
person whose devotion she sought most; -- and the deeper the intimacy,
the harder she kicked; -- so that the other, having been brought to a
place of absolute trust, and having lowered all his defences, received the
full force of the blow, and was devastated; -- which, indeed, is what
befell Gibreel Farishta, when after three weeks of the most ecstatic
lovemaking either of them had ever known he was told without
ceremony that he had better find himself somewhere to live, pretty
sharpish, because she, Allie, required more elbow-room than was
presently available; --
-- and his overweening possessiveness and jealousy, of which he himself
had been wholly unaware, owing to his never previously having thought
of a woman as a treasure that had to be guarded at all costs against the
piratical hordes who would naturally be trying to purloin her; -- and of
which more will be said almost instantly; --
-- and the fatal flaw, namely, Gibreel Farishta's imminent realization --
or, if you will, _insane idea_, -- that he truly was nothing less than an
archangel in human form, and not just any archangel, but the Angel of
the Recitation, the most exalted (now that Shaitan had fallen) of them
all.
They had spent their days in such isolation, wrapped up in the sheets of
their desires, that his wild, uncontrollable jealousy, which, as lago
warned, "doth mock the meat it feeds on", did not instantly come to
light. It first manifested itself in the absurd matter of the trio of
cartoons which Allie had hung in a group by her front door, mounted in
cream and framed in old gold, all bearing the same message, scrawled
across the lower right--hand corner of the cream mounts: _To A., in
hopes, from Brunel_. When Gibreel noticed these inscriptions he
demanded an explanation, pointing furiously at the cartoons with fully
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extended arm, while with his free hand he clutched a bedsheet around
him (he was attired in this informal manner because he'd decided the
time was ripe for him to make a full inspection of the premises, _can't
spend one's whole ljfe on one's back, or even yours_, he'd said); Allie,
forgivably, laughed. "You look like Brutus, all murder and dignity," she
teased him. "The picture of an honourable man." He shocked her by
shouting violently: "Tell me at once who the bastard is."
"You can't be serious," she said. Jack Brunei worked as an animator,
was in his late fifties and had known her father. She had never had the
faintest interest in him, but he had taken to courting her by the
strangulated, wordless method of sending her, from time to time, these
graphic gifts.
"Why you didn't throw them in the wpb?" Gibreel howled. Allie, still
not fully understanding the size of his rage, continued lightly. She had
kept the pictures because she liked them. The first was an old Punch
cartoon in which Leonardo da Vinci stood in his atelier, surrounded by
pupils, and hurled the Mona Lisa like a frisbee across the room. "_Mark
my words_," he said in the caption, "_one day men shall fly to Padua in
such as these_." In the second frame there was a page from _Toff_, a
British boys' comic dating from World War II. It had been thought
necessary in a time when so many children became evacuees to create,
by way of explanation, a comic--strip version of events in the adult
world. Here, therefore, was one of the weekly encounters between the
home team -- the Toff (an appalling monocled child in Etonian bum-
freezer and pin-striped trousers) and cloth--capped, scuffkneed Bert --
and the dastardly foe, Hawful Hadolf and the Nastiparts (a bunch of
thuggish fiends, each of whom had one extremely nasty part, e.g. a steel
hook instead of a hand, feet like claws, teeth that could bite through
your arm). The British team invariably came out on top. Gibreel,
glancing at the framed comic, was scornful. "You bloody _Angrez_. You
really think like this; this is what the war was really like for you." Allie
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decided not to mention her father, or to tell Gibreel that one of the
_Toff_ artists, a virulently anti--Nazi Berlin man named Wolf, had been
arrested one day and led away for internment along with all the other
Germans in Britain, and, according to Brunei, his colleagues hadn't
lifted a finger to save him. "Heartlessness," Jack had reflected. "Only
thing a cartoonist really needs. What an artist Disney would have been
if he hadn't had a heart. It was his fatal flaw." Brunei ran a small
animation studio named Scarecrow Productions, after the character in
_The Wizard of Oz_.
The third frame contained the last drawing from one of the films of the
great Japanese animator Yoji Kuri, whose uniquely cynical output
perfectly exemplified Brunei's unsentimental view of the cartoonist's
art. In this film, a man fell off a skyscraper; a fire engine rushed to the
scene and positioned itself beneath the falling man. The roof slid back,
permitting a huge steel spike to emerge, and, in the still on Allie's wall,
the man arrived head first and the spike rammed into his brain. "Sick,"
Gibreel Farishta pronounced.
These lavish gifts having failed to get results, Brunei was obliged to
break cover and show up in person. He presented himself at Allie's
apartment one night, unannounced and already considerably the worse
for alcohol, and produced a bottle of dark rum from his battered
briefcase. At three the next morning he had drunk the rum but showed
no signs of leaving. Allie, going ostentatiously off to the bathroom to
brush her teeth, returned to find the animator standing stark naked in
the centre of her living-room rug, revealing a surprisingly shapely body
covered by an inordinate amount of thick grey hair. When he saw her he
spread his arms and cried: "Take me! Do what you will!" She made him
dress, as kindly as she could, and put him and his briefcase gently out
of the door. He never returned.
Allie told Gibreel the story, in an open, giggling manner that suggested
she was entirely unprepared for the storm it would unleash. It is
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possible, however (things had been rather strained between them in
recent days) that her innocent air was a little disingenuous, that she
was almost hoping for him to begin the bad behaviour, so that what
followed would be his responsibility, not hers ... at any rate, Gibreel
blew sky--high, accusing Allie of having falsified the story's ending,
suggesting that poor Brunei was still waiting by his telephone and that
she intended to ring him the moment his, Farishta's, back was turned.
Ravings, in short, jealousy of the past, the worst kind of all. As this
terrible emotion took charge of him, he found himself improvising a
whole series of lovers for her, imagining them to be waiting around
every corner. She had used the Brunei story to taunt him, he shouted, it
was a deliberate and cruel threat. "You want men down on their knees,"
he screamed, every scrap of his selfcontrol long gone. "Me, I do not
kneel."
"That's it," she said. "Out."
His anger redoubled. Clutching his toga around him, he stalked into
the bedroom to dress, putting on the only clothes he possessed,
including the scarlet--lined gabardine overcoat and grey felt trilby of
Don Enrique Diamond; Allie stood in the doorway and watched. "Don't
think I'm coming back," he yelled, knowing his rage was more than
sufficient to get him out of the door, waiting for her to begin to calm
him down, to speak softly, to give him a way of staying. But she
shrugged and walked away, and it was then, at that precise moment of
his greatest wrath, that the boundaries of the earth broke, he heard a
noise like the bursting of a dam, and as the spirits of the world of
dreams flooded through the breach into the universe of the quotidian,
Gibreel Farishta saw God.
For Blake's Isaiah, God had simply been an immanence, an incorporeal
indignation; but Gibreel's vision of the Supreme Being was not abstract
in the least. He saw, sitting on the bed, a man of about the same age as
himself, of medium height, fairly heavily built, with salt-and-pepper
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beard cropped close to the line of the jaw. What struck him most was
that the apparition was balding, seemed to suffer from dandruff and
wore glasses. This was not the Almighty he had expected. "Who are
you?" he asked with interest. (Of no interest to him now was Alleluia
Cone, who had stopped in her tracks on hearing him begin to talk to
himself, and who was now observing him with an expression of genuine
panic.)
"Ooparvala," the apparition answered. "The Fellow Upstairs."
"How do I know you're not the other One," Gibreel asked craftily,
"Neechayvala, the Guy from Underneath?"
A daring question, eliciting a snappish reply. This Deity might look like
a myopic scrivener, but It could certainly mobilize the traditional
apparatus of divine rage. Clouds massed outside the window; wind and
thunder shook the room. Trees fell in the Fields. "We're losing patience
with you, Gibreel Farishta. You've doubted Us just about long enough."
Gibreel hung his head, blasted by the wrath of God. "We are not obliged
to explain Our nature to you," the dressing-down continued. "Whether
We be multiform, plural, representing the union-by-hybridization of
such opposites as _Oopar_ and _Neechay_, or whether We be pure,
stark, extreme, will not be resolved here." The disarranged bed on which
his Visitor had rested Its posterior (which, Gibreel now observed, was
glowing faintly, like the rest of the Person) was granted a highly
disapproving glance. "The point is, there will be no more dilly-dallying.
You wanted clear signs of Our existence? We sent Revelation to fill your
dreams: in which not only Our nature, but yours also, was clarified. But
you fought against it, struggling against the very sleep in which We
were awakening you. Your fear of the truth has finally obliged Us to
expose Ourself, at some personal inconvenience, in this woman's
residence at an advanced hour of the night. It is time, now, to shape up.
Did We pluck you from the skies so that you could boff and spat with
some (no doubt remarkable) flatfoot blonde? There's work to be done."
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"I am ready," Gibreel said humbly. "I was just going, anyway."
"Look," Allie Cone was saying, "Gibreel, goddamn it, never mind the
fight. Listen: I love you."
There were only the two of them in the apartment now. "I have to go,"
Gibreel said, quietly. She hung upon his arm. "Truly, I don't think
you're really well." He stood upon his dignity. "Having commanded my
exit, you no longer have jurisdiction re my health." He made his escape.
Alleluia, trying to follow him, was afflicted by such piercing pains in
both feet that, having no option, she fell weeping to the floor: like an
actress in a masala movie; or Rekha Merchant on the day Gibreel walked
out on her for the last time. Like, anyhow, a character in a story of a
kind in which she could never have imagined she belonged.
The meteorological turbulence engendered by God's anger with his
servant had given way to a clear, balmy night presided over by a fat and
creamy moon. Only the fallen trees remained to bear witness to the
might of the now--departed Being. Gibreel, trilby jammed down on his
head, money-belt firmly around his waist, hands deep in gabardine --
the right hand feeling, in there, the shape of a paperback book -- was
giving silent thanks for his escape. Certain now of his archangelic
status, he banished from his thoughts all remorse for his time of
doubting, replacing it with a new resolve: to bring this metropolis of
the ungodly, this latter-day "Ad or Thamoud, back to the knowledge of
God, to shower upon it the blessings of the Recitation, the sacred Word.
He felt his old self drop from him, and dismissed it with a shrug, but
chose to retain, for the time being, his human scale. This was not the
time to grow until he filled the sky from horizon to horizon -- though
that, too, would surely come before long.
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The city's streets coiled around him, writhing like serpents. London
had grown unstable once again, revealing its true, capricious,
tormented nature, its anguish of a city that had lost its sense of itself
and wallowed, accordingly, in the impotence of its selfish, angry present
of masks and parodies, stifled and twisted by the insupportable,
unrejected burden of its past, staring into the bleakness of its
impoverished future. He wandered its streets through that night, and
the next day, and the next night, and on until the light and dark ceased
to matter. He no longer seemed to need food or rest, but only to move
constantly through that tortured metropolis whose fabric was now
utterly transformed, the houses in the rich quarters being built of
solidified fear, the government buildings partly of vainglory and partly
of scorn, and the residences of the poor of confusion and material
dreams. When you looked through an angel's eyes you saw essences
instead of surfaces, you saw the decay of the soul blistering and
bubbling on the skins of people in the street, you saw the generosity of
certain spirits resting on their shoulders in the form of birds. As he
roamed the metamorphosed city he saw bat-winged imps sitting on the
corners of buildings made of deceits and glimpsed goblins oozing
wormily through the broken tilework of public urinals for men. As once
the thirteenth-century German monk Richalmus would shut his eyes
and instantly see clouds of minuscule demons surrounding every man
and woman on earth, dancing like dust-specks in the sunlight, so now
Gibreel with open eyes and by the light of the moon as well as the sun
detected everywhere the presence of his adversary, his -- to give the old
word back its original meaning -- _shaitan_.
Long before the Flood, he remembered -- now that he had reassumed
the role of archangel, the full range of archangelic memory and wisdom
was apparently being restored to him, little by little -- a number of
angels (the names Semjaza and Azazel came first to mind) had been
flung out of Heaven because they had been _lusting after the daughters
of men_, who in due course gave birth to an evil race of giants. He
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began to understand the degree of the danger from which he had been
saved when he departed from the vicinity of Alleluia Cone. O most false
of creatures! O princess of the powers of the air! -- When the Prophet,
on whose name be peace, had first received the wahi, the Revelation,
had he not feared for his sanity? -- And who had offered him the
reassuring certainty he needed? -- Why, Khadija, his wife. She it was
who convinced him that he was not some raving crazy but the
Messenger of God. -- Whereas what had Alleluia done for him? _You're
not yourself. I don't think you're really well_. -- O bringer of
tribulation, creatrix of strife, of soreness of the heart! Siren, temptress,
fiend in human form! That snowlike body with its pale, pale hair: how
she had used it to fog his soul, and how hard he had found it, in the
weakness of his flesh, to resist . . . enmeshed by her in the web of a love
so complex as to be beyond comprehension, he had come to the very
edge of the ultimate Fall. How beneficent, then, the OverEntity had
been to him! -- He saw now that the choice was simple: the infernal love
of the daughters of men, or the celestial adoration of God. He had
found it possible to choose the latter; in the nick of time.
He drew out of the right-hand pocket of his overcoat the book that had
been there ever since his departure from Rosa's house a millennium
ago: the book of the city he had come to save, Proper London, capital of
Vilayet, laid out for his benefit in exhaustive detail, the whole bang
shoot. He would redeem this city: Geographers' London, all the way
from A to Z.
On a street corner in a part of town once known for its population of
artists, radicals and men in search of prostitutes, and now given over to
advertising personnel and minor film producers, the Archangel Gibreel
chanced to see a lost soul. It was young, male, tall, and of extreme
beauty, with a strikingly aquiline nose and longish black hair oiled
down and parted in the centre; its teeth were made of gold. The lost
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soul stood at the very edge of the pavement, its back to the road,
leaning forwards at a slight angle and clutching, in its right hand,
something it evidently held very dear. Its behaviour was striking: first it
would stare fiercely at the thing it held in its hand, and then look
around, whipping its head from right to left, scrutinizing with blazing
concentration the faces of the passers-by. Reluctant to approach too
quickly, Gibreel on a first pass saw that the object the lost soul was
clutching was a small passport-sized photograph. On his second pass he
went right up to the stranger and offered his help. The other eyed him
suspiciously, then thrust the photograph under his nose. "This man,"
he said, jabbing at the picture with a long index finger. "Do you know
this man?"
When Gibreel saw, staring out of the photograph, a young man of
extreme beauty, with a strikingly aquiline nose and longish black hair,
oiled, with a central parting, he knew that his instincts had been
correct, that here, standing on a busy street corner watching the crowd
in case he saw himself going by, was a Soul in search of its mislaid
body, a spectre in desperate need of its lost physical casing -- for it is
known to archangels that the soul or ka cannot exist (once the golden
cord of light linking it to the body is severed) for more than a night and
a day. "I can help you," he promised, and the young soul looked at him
in wild disbelief. Gibreel leaned forward, grasped the ka's face between
his hands, and kissed it firmly upon the mouth, for the spirit that is
kissed by an archangel regains, at once, its lost sense of direction, and
is set upon the true and righteous path. -- The lost soul, however, had a
most surprising reaction to being favoured by an archangelic kiss. "Sod
you," it shouted, "I may be desperate, mate, but I'm not that
desperate," -- after which, manifesting a solidity most unusual in a
disembodied spirit, it struck the Archangel of the Lord a resounding
blow upon the nose with the very fist in which its image was clasped; --
with disorienting, and bloody, results.
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When his vision cleared, the lost soul had gone but there, floating on
her carpet a couple of feet off the ground, was Rekha Merchant,
mocking his discomfiture. "Not such a great start," she snorted.
"Archangel my foot. Gibreel janab, you're off your head, take it from
me. You played too many winged types for your own good. I wouldn't
trust that Deity of yours either, if I were you," she added in a more
conspiratorial tone, though Gibreel suspected that her intentions
remained satirical. "He hinted as much himself, fudging the answer to
your Oopar--Neechay question like he did. This notion of separation of
functions, light versus dark, evil versus good, may be straightforward
enough in Islam -- _0, children of Adam, let not the Devil seduce you,
as he expelled your parents from the garden, pulling off from them
their clothing that he might show them their shame_ -- but go back a
bit and you see that it's a pretty recent fabrication. Amos, eighth
century BC, asks: 'Shall there be evil in a city and the Lord hath not
done it?' Also Jahweh, quoted by Deutero-Isaiah two hundred years
later, remarks: 'I form the light, and create darkness; I make peace and
create evil; I the Lord do all these things.' It isn't until the Book of
Chronicles, merely fourth century BC, that the word shaitan is used to
mean a being, and not only an attribute of God." This speech was one
of which the "real" Rekha would plainly have been incapable, coming as
she did from a polytheistic tradition and never having evinced the
faintest interest in comparative religion or, of all things, the
Apocrypha. But the Rekha who had been pursuing him ever since he fell
from _Bostan_ was, Gibreel knew, not real in any objective,
psychologically or corporeally consistent manner. -- What, then, was
she? It would be easy to imagine her as a thing of his own making -- his
own accomplice-adversary, his inner demon. That would account for her
case with the arcana. -- But how had he himself come by such
knowledge? Had he truly, in days gone by, possessed it and then lost it,
as his memory now informed him? (He had a nagging notion of
inaccuracy here, but when he tried to fix his thoughts upon his "dark
age", that is to say the period during which he had unaccountably come
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co disbelieve in his angelhood, he was faced with a thick bank of clouds,
through which, peer and blink as he might, he could make out little
more than shadows.) -- Or could it be that the material now filling his
thoughts, the echo, to give but a single example, of how his lieutenant-
angels Ithuriel and Zephon had found the adversary _squat like a toad_
by Eve's ear in Eden, using his wiles "to reach/The organs of her fancy,
and with them forge/Illusions as he list, phantasms and dreams", had
in fact been planted in his head by that same ambiguous Creature, that
Upstairs-Downstairs Thing, who had confronted him in Alleluia's
boudoir, and awoken him from his long waking sleep? -- Then Rekha,
too, was perhaps an emissary of this God, an external, divine antagonist
and not an inner, guilt-produced shade; one sent to wrestle with him
and make him whole again.
His nose, leaking blood, began to throb painfully. He had never been
able to tolerate pain. "Always a cry-baby," Rekha laughed in his face.
Shaitan had understood more:
_Lives there who loves his pain?_
_Who would not, finding way, break loose from hell_,
_Though thither doomed? Thou wouldst thyself, no doubt_,
_And boldly venture to whatever place_
_Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change_
_Torment with ease_ . . .
He couldn't have put it better. A person who found himself in an
inferno would do anything, rape, extortion, murder, felo de se, whatever
it took to get out ... he dabbed a handkerchief at his nose as Rekha,
still present on her flying rug, and intuiting his ascent (descent?) into
the realm of metaphysical speculation, attempted to get things back on
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co more familiar ground. "You should have stuck with me," she opined.
"You could have loved me, good and proper. I knew how to love. Not
everybody has the capacity for it; I do, I mean did. Not like that self-
centred blonde bombshell thinking secretly about having a child and
not even mentioning same to you. Not like your God, either; it's not
like the old days, when such Persons took proper interest."
This needed contesting on several grounds. "You were married, start to
finish," he replied. "Ball--bearings. I was your side dish. Nor will I, who
waited so long for Him to manifest Himself, now speak poorly of Him
post facto, after the personal appearance. Finally, what's all this baby-
talk? You'll go to any extreme, seems like."
"You don't know what hell is," she snapped back, dropping the mask of
her imperturbability. "But, buster, you sure will. If you'd ever said, I'd
have thrown over that ball-bearings bore in two sees, but you kept
mum. Now I'll see you down there: Neechayvala's Hotel."
"You'd never have left your children," he insisted. "Poor fellows, you
even threw them down first when you jumped." That set her off. "Don't
you talk! To dare to talk! Mister, I'll cook your goose! I'll fry your
heart and eat it up on toast! -- And as to your Snow White princess, she
is of the opinion that a child is a mother's property only, because men
may come and men may go but she goes on forever, isn't it? You're only
the seed, excuse me, she is the garden. Who asks a seed permission to
plant? What do you know, damn fool Bombay boy messing with the
modern ideas of mames."
"And you," he came back strongly. "Did you, for example, ask their
Daddyji's permission before you threw his kiddies off the roof?"
She vanished in fury and yellow smoke, with an explosion that made
him stagger and knocked the hat off his head (it lay upturned on the
pavement at his feet). She unleashed, too, an olfactory effect of such
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nauseous potency as to make thim gag and retch. Emptily: for he was
perfectly void of all fcocdstuffs and liquids, having partaken of no
nourishment for many days. Ah, immortality, he thought: ah, noble
release from the tyranny of the body. He noticed that there were two
individuals watching him curiously, one a violent-looking youth in
studs and - leather, with a rainbow Mohican haircut and a streak of
face-paint lightning zig-zagging down his nose, the other a kindly
middle-aged woman in a headscarf. Very well then: seize the day.
"Repent," he cried passionately. "For I am the Archangel of the Lord."
"Poor bastard," said the Mohican and threw a coin into Farishta's
fallen hat. He walked on; the kindly, twinkling lady, however, leaned
confidentially towards Gibreel and passed him a leaflet. "You'll be
interested in this." He quickly identified it as a racist text demanding
the "repatriation" of the country's black citizenry. She took him, he
deduced, for a white angel. So angels were not exempt from such
categories, he wonderingly learned. "Look at it this way," the woman
was saying, taking his silence for uncertainty -- and revealing, by
slipping into an overarticulated, over-loud mode of delivery, that she
thought him not quite pukka, a Levantine angel, maybe, Cypriot or
Greek, in need of her best talking--to--the--afflicted voice. "If they came
over and filled up wherever you come from, well! You wouldn't like
that ."
Punched in the nose, taunted by phantoms, given alms instead of
reverence, and in divers ways shewn the depths to wihich the denizens
of the city had sunk, the intransigence of "the evil manifest there,
Gibreel became more determined than ever to commence the doing of
good, to initiate the great work of rolling back the frontiers of the
adversary's dominion. The atlas in his pocket was his master-plan. He
would redeem the city square by square, from Hockley Farm in the
north-west cornerr of the charted area to Chance Wood in the south-
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east; after which, perhaps, he would celebrate the conclusion of his
labours by playing a round of golf at the aptly named course situated at
the very edge of the map: Wildernesse.
And somewhere along the way the adversary himself would be waiting.
Shaitan, Iblis, or whatever name he had adopted -- and in point of fact
that name was on the tip of Gibreel's tongue -- just as the face of the
adversary, horned and malevolent, was still somewhat out of focus . . .
well, it would take shape soon enough, and the name would come back,
Gibreel was sure of it, for were not his powers growing every day, was he
not the one who, restored to his glory, would hurl the adversary down,
once more, into the Darkest Deeps? -- That name: what was it?
Tchsomething? Tchu Tche Tchin Tchow. No matter. All in good time.
But the city in its corruption refused to submit to the dominion of the
cartographers, changing shape at will and without warning, making it
impossible for Gibreel to approach his quest in the systematic manner
he would have preferred. Some days he would turn a corner at the end
of a grand colonnade built of human flesh and covered in skin that bled
when scratched, and find himself in an uncharted wasteland, at whose
distant rim he could see tall familiar buildings, Wren's dome, the high
metallic spark-plug of the Telecom Tower, crumbling in the wind like
sandcastles. He would stumble across bewildering and anonymous
parks and emerge into the crowded streets of the West End, upon
which, to the consternation of the motorists, acid had begun to drip
from the sky, burning great holes in the surfaces of the roads. In this
pandemonium of mirages he often heard laughter: the city was mocking
his impotence, awaiting his surrender, his recognition that what existed
here was beyond his powers to comprehend, let alone to change. He
shouted curses at his still--faceless adversary, pleaded with the Deity for
a further sign, feared that his energies might, in truth, never be equal to
the task. In brief, he was becoming the most wretched and bedraggled
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of archangels, his garments filthy, his hair lank and greasy, his chin
sprouting hair in uncontrollable tufts. It was in this sorry condition
that he arrived at the Angel Underground.
It must have been early in the morning, because the station staff drifted
up as he watched, to unlock and then roll back the metal grille of night.
He followed them in, shuffling along, head low, hands deep in pockets
(the Street atlas had been discarded long ago); and raising his eyes at
last, found himself looking into a face on the verge of dissolving into
tears.
"Good morning," he ventured, and the young woman in the ticket
office responded bitterly, "What's good about it, that's what I want to
know," and now her tears did come, plump, globular and plenteous.
"There, there, child," he said, and she gave him a disbelieving look.
"You're no priest," she opined. He answered, a little tentatively: "I am
the Angel, Gibreel." She began to laugh, as abruptly as she had wept.
"Only angels roun here hang from the lamp-posts at Christmas.
Illuminations. Only the Council swing them by their necks." He was not
to be put off. "I am Gibreel," he repeated, fixing her with his eye.
"Recite." And, to her own emphatically expressed astonishment, _I
cyaan believe I doin this, empt yin my heart to some tramp, I not like
this, you know_, the ticket clerk began to speak.
Her name was Orphia Phillips, twenty years old, both parents alive and
dependent on her, especially now that her fool sister Hyacinth had lost
her job as a physiotherapist by "gettin up to she nonsense". The young
man's name, for of course there was a young man, was Uriah Moseley.
The station had recently installed two gleaming new elevators and
Orphia and Uriah were their operators. During rush-hours, when both
lifts were working, they had little time for conversation; but for the rest
of the day, only one lift was used. Orphia took up her position at the
ticket—collection point just along from the elevator-shaft, and Uri
managed to spend a good deal of time down there with her, leaning
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against the door-jamb of his gleaming lift and picking his teeth with
the silver toothpick his great--grandfather had liberated from some old-
time plantation boss. It was true love. "But I jus get carry away,"
Orphia wailed at Gibreel. "I always too hasty for sense." One afternoon,
during a lull, she had deserted her post and stepped up right in front of
him as he leaned and picked teeth, and seeing the look in her eye he put
away the pick. After that he came to work with a spring in his step; she,
too, was in heaven as she descended each day into the bowels of the
earth. Their kisses grew longer and more passionate. Sometimes she
would not detach himself when the buzzer rang for the lift; Uriah
would have to push her back, with a cry of, "Cool off, girl, the public."
Uriah had a vocational attitude to his work. He spoke to her of his
pride in his uniform, of his satisfaction at being in the public service,
giving his life to society. She thought he sounded a shade pompous,
and wanted to say, "Uri, man, you jus a elevator boy here," but
intuiting that such realism would not be well received, she held her
troublesome tongue, or, rather, pushed it into his mouth.
Their embraces in the tunnel became wars. Now he was trying to get
away, straightening his tunic, while she bit his ear and pushed her hand
down inside his trousers. "You crazy," he said, but she, continuing,
inquired: "So? You vex?"
They were, inevitably, caught: a complaint was lodged by a kindly lady
in headscarf and tweeds. They had been lucky to keep their jobs. Orphia
had been "grounded", deprived of elevator-shafts and boxed into the
ticket booth. Worse still, her place had been taken by the station
beauty, Rochelle Watkins. "I know what goin on," she cried angrily. "I
see Rochelle expression when she come up, fixin up her hair an all o"
dat." Uriah, nowadays, avoided Orphia's eyes.
"Can't figure out how you get me to tell you me business," she
concluded, uncertainly. "You not no angel. That is for sure." But she
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was unable, try as she might, to break away from his transfixing gaze. "I
know," he told her, "what is in your heart."
He reached in through the booth's window and took her unresisting
hand. -- Yes, this was it, the force of her desires filling him up, enabling
him to translate them back to her, making action possible, allowing her
to say and do what she most profoundly required; this was what he
remembered, this quality of being joined to the one to whom he
appeared, so that what followed was the product of their joining. At
last, he thought, the archangelic functions return. -- Inside the ticket
booth, the clerk Orphia Phillips had her eyes closed, her body had
slumped down in her chair, looking slow and heavy, and her lips were
moving. -- And his own, in unison with hers. -- There. It was done.
At this moment the station manager, a little angry man with nine long
hairs, fetched from ear--level, plastered across his baldness, burst like a
cuckoo from his little door. "What's your game?" he shouted at Gibreel.
"Get out of it before I call the police." Gibreel stayed where he was. The
station manager saw Orphia emerging from her trance and began to
shriek. "You, Phillips. Never saw the like. Anything in trousers, but this
is ridiculous. All my born days. And nodding off on the job, the idea."
Orphia stood up, put on her raincoat, picked up her folding umbrella,
emerged from ticket booth. "Leaving public property unattended. You
get back in there this minute, or it's your job, sure as eggsis." Orphia
headed for the spiral stairs and moved towards the lower depths.
Deprived of his employee, the manager swung round to face Gibreel.
"Go on," he said. "Eff off. Go crawl back under your stone."
"I am waiting," replied Gibreel with dignity, "for the lift."
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Orphia Phillips turning a
corner saw Uriah Moseley leaning against the ticketcollection booth in
that way he had, and Rochelle Watkins simpering with delight. But
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Orphia knew what to do. "You let "Chelle feel you toothpick yet, Uri?"
she sang out. "She'd surely love to hold it."
They both straightened up, stung. Uriah began blustering: "Don't be so
common now, Orphia," but her eyes stopped him in his tracks. Then he
began to walk towards her, dreamily, leaving Rochelle flat. "Thas right,
Uri," she said softly, never looking away from him for an instant.
"Come along now. Come to momma." _Now walk backwards to the lift
and just suck him right in there, and after that it's up and away we go_.
-- But something was wrong here. He wasn't walking any more. Rochelle
Watkins was standing beside him, too damn close, and he'd come to a
halt. "You tell her, Uriah," Rochelle said. "Her stupid obeah don't
signify down here." Uriah was putting an arm around Rochelle Watkins.
This wasn't the way she'd dreamed it, the way she'd suddenly been
certain-sure it would be, after that Gibreel took her hand, just like that,
as if they were _intended_; wee-yurd, she thought; what was happening
to her? She advanced. -- "Get her offa me, Uriah," Rochelle shouted.
"She mashin up me uniform and all." -- Now Uriah, holding the
struggling ticket clerk by both wrists, gave out the news: "I aks her to
get marry!" -- Whereupon the fight went out of Orphia. Beaded plaits
no longer whirled and clicked. "So you out of order, Orphia Phillips,"
Uriah continued, puffing somewhat. "And like the lady say, no obeah na
change nutten." Orphia, also breathing heavily, her clothes disarranged,
flopped down on the floor with her back to the curved tunnel wall. The
noise of a train pulling in came up towards them; the affianced couple
hurried to their posts, tidying themselves up, leaving Orphia where she
sat. "Girl," Uriah Moseley offered by way of farewell, "you too damn
outrageous for me." Rochelle Watkins blew Uriah a kiss from her ticket-
collection booth; he, lounging against his lift, picked his teeth. "Home
cooking," Rochelle promised him. "And no surprises."
349
"You filthy bum," Orphia Phillips screamed at Gibreel after walking up
the two hundred and forty-seven steps of the spiral staircase of defeat.
"You no good devil bum. Who ask you to mash up me life so?"
_Even the halo has gone out, like a broken bulb, and I don't know
where's the store_. Gibreel on a bench in the small park near the
station meditated over the futility of his efforts to date. And found
blasphemies surfacing once again: if the dabba had the wrong markings
and so went to incorrect recipient, was the dabbawalla to blame? If
special effect -- travelling mat, or such -- didn't work, and you saw the
blue outline shimmering at the edge of the flying fellow, how to blame
the actor? Bythesametoken, if his angeling was proving insufficient,
whose fault, please, was this? His, personally, or some other Personage?
-- Children were playing in the garden of his doubting, among the
midge-clouds and rosebushes and despair. Grandmother's footsteps,
ghostbusters, tag. Ellowen deeowen, London. The fall of angels, Gibreel
reflected, was not the same kettle as the Tumble of Woman and Man. In
the case of human persons, the issue had been morality. Of the fruit of
the tree of the knowledge of good and evil they shouldst not eat, and
ate. Woman first, and at her suggestion man, acquired the verboten
ethical standards, tastily apple-flavoured: the serpent brought them a
value system. Enabling them, among other things, to judge the Deity
Itself, making possible in good time all the awkward inquiries: why evil?
Why suffering? Why death? -- So, out they went. It didn't want Its
pretty creatures getting above their station. -- Children giggled in his
face: _something straaange in the neighbourhood^ Armed with
zapguns, they made as if to bust him like some common, lowdown
spook. _Come away from there_, a woman commanded, a tightly
groomed woman, white, a redhead, with a broad stripe of freckles across
the middle of her face; her voice was full of distaste. _Did you hear me?
Now!_ -- Whereas the angels' crash was a simple matter of power: a
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straightforward piece of celestial police work, punishment for rebellion,
good and tough "pour encourager les autres". -- Then how unconfident
of Itself this Deity was, Who didn't want Its finest creations to know
right from wrong; and Who reigned by terror, insisting upon the
unqualified submission of even Its closest associates, packing off all
dissidents to Its blazing Siberias, the gulag-infernos of Hell. . . he
checked himself. These were satanic thoughts, put into his head by
Iblis--Beelzebub-Shaitan. If the Entity were still punishing him for his
earlier lapse of faith, this was no way to earn remission. He must simply
continue until, purified, he felt his full potency restored. Emptying his
mind, he sat in the gathering darkness and watched the children (now
at some distance) play. _Ip-dipsky-blue who"s-there-not-you not-
because-you"re-dirty not-becauseyou"re-clean_, and here, he was sure,
one of the boys, a grave eleven--year--old with outsize eyes, stared
straight at him: _mymother-says you"re-the-fairy-queen_.
Rekha Merchant materialized, all jewels and finery. "Bachchas are
making rude rhymes about you now, Angel of the Lord," she gibed.
"Even that little ticket--girl back there, she isn't so impressed. Still
doing badly, baba, looks like to me."
On this occasion, however, the spirit of the suicide Rekha Merchant had
not come merely to mock. To his astonishment she claimed that his
many tribulations had been of her making: "You imagine there is only
your One Thing in charge?" she cried. "Well, lover--boy, let me put you
wise." Her smart--alec Bombay English speared him with a sudden
nostalgia for his lost city, but she wasn't waiting for him to regain his
composure. "Remember that I died for love of you, you creepo; this
gives me rights. In particular, to be revenged upon you, by totally
bungling up your life. A man must suffer for causing a lover's leap;
don't you think so? That's the rule, anyway. For so long now I've
turned you inside out; now I'm just fed up. Don't forget how I was so
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good at forgiving! You liked it also, na? Therefore I have come to say
that compromise solution is always possible. You want to discuss it, or
you prefer to go on being lost in this craziness, becoming not an angel
but a down-and-out hobo, a stupid joke?"
Gibreel asked: "What compromise?"
"What else?" she replied, her manner transformed, all gentleness, with a
shine in her eyes. "My farishta, a so small thing."
If he would only say he loved her:
If he would only say it, and, once a week, when she came to lie with him,
show his love:
If on a night of his choice it could be as it was during the ball-
bearings—man's absences on business:
"Then I will terminate the insanities of the city, with which I am
persecuting you; nor will you be possessed, any longer, by this crazy
notion of changing, _redeeming_ the city like something left in a
pawnshop; it'll all be calm--calm; you can even live with your paleface
mame and be the greatest film star in the world; how could I be jealous,
Gibreel, when I'm already dead, I don't want you to say I'm as
important as her, no, just a second--rank love will do for me, a side-dish
amour; the foot in the other boot. How about it, Gibreel, just three--
little-words, what do you say?"
_Give me time_.
"It isn't even as if I'm asking for something new, something you
haven't already agreed to, done, indulged in. Lying with a phantom is
not such a bad-bad thing. What about down at that old Mrs. Diamond's
-- in the boathouse, that night? Quite a tamasha, you don't think so?
So: who do you think put it on? Listen: I can take for you any form you
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prefer; one of the advantages of my condition. You wish her again, that
boathouse mame from the stone age? Hey presto. You want the mirror
image of your own mountain-climber sweaty tomboy iceberg? Also,
allakazoo, allakazam. Who do you think it was, waiting for you after the
old lady died?"
All that night he walked the city streets, which remained stable, banal,
as if restored to the hegemony of natural laws; while Rekha -- floating
before him on her carpet like an artiste on a stage, just above head-
height -- serenaded him with the sweetest of love songs, accompanying
herself on an old ivorysided harmonium, singing everything from the
gazals of Faiz Ahmed Faiz to the best old film music, such as the
defiant air sung by the dancer Anarkali in the presence of the Grand
Mughal Akbar in the fifties classic _Mughal-e-Azam_, -- in which she
declares and exults in her impossible, forbidden love for the Prince,
Salim, --"Pyaar kiya to darna kya?" -- That is to say, more or less, _why
be afraid of love?_ and Gibreel, whom she had accosted in the garden of
his doubt, felt the music attaching strings to his heart and leading him
towards her, because what she asked was, just as she said, such a little
thing, after all.
He reached the river; and another bench, cast--iron camels supporting
the wooden slats, beneath Cleopatra's Needle. Sitting, he closed his
eyes. Rekha sang Faiz:
_Do not ask of me, my love_,
_that love I once had for you_ . . .
_How lovely you are still, my love_,
_but I am helpless too_;
_for the world has other sorrows than love_,
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_and other pleasures too_.
_Do not ask of me, my love_,
_that love I once had for you_.
Gibreel saw a man behind his closed eyes: not Faiz, but another poet,
well past his heyday, a decrepit sort of fellow. -- Yes, that was his name:
Baal. What was he doing here? What did he have to say for himself? --
Because he was certainly trying to say something; his speech, thick and
slurry, made understanding difficult . . . _Any new idea, Mahound, is
asked two questions. The first is asked when it's weak: WHA T KIND
OF AN IDEA ARE YOU? Are you the kind that compromises, does deals,
accommodates itself to society, aims to find a niche, to survive; or are
you the cussed, bloody-minded, ramrod-backed type of damnfool
notion that would rather break than sway with the breeze? -- The kind
that will almost certainly, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, be
smashed to bits; but, the hundredth time, will change the world_.
"What's the second question?" Gibreel asked aloud.
Answer the first one first .
Gibreel, opening his eyes at dawn, found Rekha unable to sing, silenced
by expectations and uncertainties. He let her have it straight off. "It's a
trick. There is no God but God. You are neither the Entity nor Its
adversary, but only some caterwauling mist. No compromises; I won't
do deals with fogs." He saw, then, the emeralds and brocades fall from
her body, followed by the flesh, until only the skeleton remained, after
which that, too, crumbled away; finally, there was a piteous, piercing
shriek, as whatever was left of Rekha flew with vanquished fury into the
sun.
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And did not return: except at -- or near -- the end.
Convinced that he had passed a test, Gibreel realized that a great weight
had lifted from him; his spirits grew lighter by the second, until by the
time the sun was in the sky he was literally delirious with joy. Now it
could really begin: the tyranny of his enemies, of Rekha and Alleluia
Cone and all the women who wished to bind him in the chains of
desires and songs, was broken for good; now he could feel light
streaming out, once more, from the unseen point just behind his head;
and his weight, too, began to diminish. -- Yes, he was losing the last
traces of his humanity, the gift of flight was being restored to him, as
he became ethereal, woven of illumined air. -- He could simply step, this
minute, off this blackened parapet and soar away above the old grey
river; -- or leap from any of its bridges and never touch land again. So:
it was time to show the city a great sight, for when it perceived the
Archangel Gibreel standing in all his majesty upon the western horizon,
bathed in the rays of the rising sun, then surely its people would be sore
afraid and repent them of their sins.
He began to enlarge his person.
How astonishing, then, that of all the drivers streaming along the
Embankment -- it was, after all, rush-hour -- not one should so much as
look in his direction, or acknowledge him! This was in truth a people
who had forgotten how to see. And because the relationship between
men and angels is an ambiguous one -- in which the angels, or
mala"ikah, are both the controllers of nature and the intermediaries
between the Deity and the human race; but at the same time, as the
Quran clearly states, _we said unto the angels, be submissive unto
Adam_, the point being to symbolize man's ability to master, through
knowledge, the forces of nature which the angels represented -- there
really wasn't much that the ignored and infuriated malak Gibreel could
do about it. Archangels could only speak when men chose to listen.
What a bunch! Hadn't he warned the Over-Entity at the very beginning
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about this crew of criminals and evildoers? "Wilt thou place in the
earth such as make mischief in it and shed blood?" he had asked, and
the Being, as usual, replied only that he knew better. Well, there they
were, the masters of the earth, canned like tuna on wheels and blind as
bats, their heads full of mischief and their newspapers of blood.
It really was incredible. Here appeared a celestial being, all radiance,
effulgence and goodness, larger than Big Ben, capable of straddling the
Thames colossus--style, and these little ants remained immersed in
drive-time radio and quarrels with fellowmotorists. "I am Gibreel," he
shouted in a voice that shook every building on the riverbank: nobody
noticed. Not one person came running out of those quaking edifices to
escape the earthquake. Blind, deaf and asleep.
He decided to force the issue.
The stream of traffic flowed past him. He took a mighty breath, lifted
one gigantic foot, and stepped out to face the cars.
Gibreel Farishta was returned to Allie's doorstep, badly bruised, with
many grazes on his arms and face, and jolted into sanity, by a tiny
shining gentleman with an advanced stammer who introduced himself
with some difficulty as the film producer S.S. Sisodia, "known as
Whiwhisky because I'm papa partial to a titi tipple; mamadam, my caca
card." (When they knew each other better, Sisodia would send Allie into
convulsions of laughter by rolling up his right trouser-leg, exposing the
knee, and pronouncing, while he held his enormous wraparound movie-
man glasses to his shin: "Self pawpaw portrait." He was longsighted to
a degree: "Don't need help to see moomovies but real life gets too damn
cloclose up.") It was Sisodia's rented limo that hit Gibreel, a slow-
motion accident luckily, owing to traffic congestion; the actor ended up
on the bonnet, mouthing the oldest line in the movies: _Where am I_,
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and Sisodia, seeing the legendary features of the vanished demigod
squashed up against the limousine's windshield, was tempted to
answer: _Baback where you bibi belong: on the iska iska iscreen_. -- "No
bobobones broken," Sisodia told Allie. "A mimi miracle. He ista ista
istepped right in fafa front of the weewee wehicle."
_So you're back_, Allie greeted Gibreel silently. _Seems this is where
you always land up after you fall_.
"Also Scotch-and-Sisodia," the film producer reverted to the question
of his sobriquets. "For hoohoo humorous reasons. My fafavourite pup
pup poison."
"It is very kind of you to bring Gibreel home," Allie belatedly got the
point. "You must allow us to offer you a drink."
"Sure! Sure!" Sisodia actually clapped his hands. "For me, for
whowhole of heehee Hindi cinema, today is a baba banner day."
"You have not heard perhaps the story of the paranoid schizophrenic
who, believing himself to be the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, agreed
to undergo a lie--detector test?" Alicja Cohen, eating gefilte fish
hungrily, waved one of Bloom's forks under her daughter's nose. "The
question they asked him: are you Napoleon? And the answer he gave,
smiling wickedly, no doubt: No. So they watch the machine, which
indicates with all the insight of modern science that the lunatic is
lying." Blake again, Allie thought. _Then I asked: does afirm perswasion
that a thing is so, make it so? He_ -- i.e. Isaiah -- _replied. All poets
believe that it does. & in ages of imagination this firm perswasion
removed mountains; but many are not capable of a firm perswasion of
any thing_. "Are you listening to me, young woman? I'm serious here.
That gentleman you have in your bed: he requires not your nightly
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attentions -- excuse me but I'll speak plainly; seeing I must -- but, to be
frank, a padded cell."
"You'd do that, wouldn't you," Allie hit back. "You'd throw away the
key. Maybe you'd even plug him in. Burn the devils out of his brain:
strange how our prejudices never change."
"Hmm," Alicja ruminated, adopting her vaguest and most innocent
expression in order to infuriate her daughter. "What can it harm? Yes,
maybe a little voltage, a little dose of the juice. .
"What he needs is what he's getting, mother. Proper medical
supervision, plenty of rest, and something you maybe forgot about."
She dried suddenly, her tongue knotted, and it was in quite a different,
low voice, staring at her untouched salad, that she got out the last
word. "Love."
"Ah, the power of love," Alicja patted her daughter's (at once
withdrawn) hand. "No, it's not what I forgot, Alleluia. It's what you
just begun for the first time in your beautiful life to learn. And who do
you pick?" She returned to the attack. "An out-tolunch! A ninety-
pennies-in-the-pound! A butterflies-in-thebrainbox! I mean, _angels_,
darling, I never heard the like. Men are always claiming special
privileges, but this one is a first."
"Mother . . ." Allie began, but Alicja's mood had changed again, and
this time, when she spoke, Allie was not listening to the words, but
hearing the pain they both revealed and concealed, the pain of a woman
to whom history had most brutally happened, who had already lost a
husband and seen one daughter precede her to what she once, with
unforgettable black humour, referred to (she must have read the sports
pages, by some chance, to come across the phrase) as an _early bath_.
"Allie, my baby," Alicja Cohen said, "we're going to have to take good
care of you."
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One reason why Allie was able to spot that panic-anguish in her
mother's face was her recent sighting of the same combination on the
features of Gibreel Farishta. After Sisodia returned him to her care, it
became plain that Gibreel had been shaken to the very marrow, and
there was a haunted look to him, a scarified popeyed quality, that quite
pierced her heart. He faced the fact of his mental illness with courage,
refusing to play it down or call it by a false name, but his recognition of
it had, understandably, cowed him. No longer (for the present, anyway)
the ebullient vulgarian for whom she had conceived her "grand
passion", he became for her, in this newly vulnerable incarnation, more
lovable than ever. She grew determined to lead him back to sanity, to
stick it out; to wait out the storm, and conquer the peak. And he was,
for the moment, the easiest and most malleable of patients, somewhat
dopey as a result of the heavy-duty medication he was being given by
the specialists at the Maudsley Hospital, sleeping long hours, and
acquiescing, when awake, in all her requests, without a murmur of
protest. In alert moments he filled in for her the full background to his
illness: the strange serial dreams, and before that the near-fatal
breakdown in India. "I am no longer afraid of sleep," he told her.
"Because what's happened in my waking time is now so much worse."
His greatest fear reminded her of Charles II's terror, after his
Restoration, of being sent "on his travels" again: "I'd give anything
only to know it won't happen any more," he told her, meek as a lamb.
_Lives there who loves his pain?_ "It won't happen," she reassured him.
"You've got the best help there is." He quizzed her about money, and,
when she tried to deflect the questions, insisted that she withdraw the
psychiatric fees from the small fortune stashed in his money--belt. His
spirits remained low. "Doesn't matter what you say," he mumbled in
response to her cheery optimisms. "The craziness is in here and it drives
me wild to think it could get out any minute, right now, and he would
be in charge again." He had begun to characterize his "possessed",
"angel" self as another person: in the Beckettian formula, _Not I. He_.
359
His very own Mr. Hyde. Allie attempted to argue against such
descriptions. "It isn't _he_, it's you, and when you're well, it won't be
you any more."
It didn't work. For a time, however, it looked as though the treatment
was going to. Gibreel seemed calmer, more in control; the serial dreams
were still there -- he would still speak, at night, verses in Arabic, a
language he did not know: _tilk al-gharaniq al"ula wa inna shafa"ata-
hunna la-turtaja_, for example, which turned out to mean (Allie, woken
by his sleeptalk, wrote it down phonetically and went with her scrap of
paper to the Brickhall mosque, where her recitation made a mullah's
hair stand on end under his turban): "These are exalted females whose
intercession is to be desired" -- but he seemed able to think of these
nightshows as separate from himself, which gave both Allie and the
Maudsley psychiatrists the feeling that Gibreel was slowly
reconstructing the boundary wall between dreams and reality, and was
on the road to recovery; whereas in fact, as it turned out, this
separation was related to, was the same phenomenon as, his splitting of
his sense of himself into two entities, one of which he sought heroically
to suppress, but which he also, by characterizing it as other than
himself, preserved, nourished, and secretly made strong.
As for Allie, she lost, for a while, the prickly, wrong feeling of being
stranded in a false milieu, an alien narrative; caring for Gibreel,
investing in his brain, as she put it to herself, fighting to salvage him so
that they could resume the great, exciting struggle of their love --
because they would probably quarrel all the way to the grave, she mused
tolerantly, they'd be two old codgers flapping feebly at one another
with rolled-up newspapers as they sat upon the evening verandas of
their lives -- she felt more closely joined to him each day; rooted, so to
speak, in his earth. It was some time since Maurice Wilson had been
seen sitting among the chimneypots, calling her to her death.
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Mr. "Whisky" Sisodia, that gleaming and charm-packed knee in
spectacles, became a regular caller -- three or four visits a week -- during
Gibreel's convalescence, invariably arriving with boxes full of goodies
to eat. Gibreel had been literally fasting to death during his "angel
period", and the medical opinion was that starvation had contributed
in no small degree to his hallucinations. "So now we fafatten him up,"
Sisodia smacked his palms together, and once the invalid's stomach was
up to it, "Whisky" plied him with delicacies: Chinese sweet--corn and
chicken soup, Bombay-style bhel-puri from the new, chic but
unfortunately named "Pagal Khana" restaurant whose "Crazy Food"
(but the name could also be translated as _Madhouse_) had grown
popular enough, especially among the younger set of British Asians, to
rival even the long-standing pre-eminence of the Shaandaar Cafe, from
which Sisodia, not wishing to show unseemly partisanship, also fetched
eats -- sweetmeats, samosas, chicken patties -- for the increasingly
voracious Gibreel. He brought, too, dishes made by his own hand, fish
curries, raitas, sivayyan, khir, and doled out, along with the edibles,
namedropping accounts of celebrity dinner parties: how Pavarotti had
loved Whisky's lassi, and O but that poor James Mason had just adored
his spicy prawns. Vanessa, Amitabh, Dustin, Sridevi, Christopher Reeve
were all invoked. "One soosoo superstar should be aware of the tatastes
of his pipi peers." Sisodia was something of a legend himself, Allie
learned from Gibreel. The most slippery and silver-tongued man in the
business, he had made a string of "quality" pictures on microscopic
budgets, keeping going for over twenty years on pure charm and
nonstop hustle. People on Sisodia projects got paid with the greatest
difficulty, but somehow failed to mind. He had once quelled a cast
revolt -- over pay, inevitably -- by whisking the entire unit off for a
grand picnic in one of the most fabulous maharajah palaces in India, a
place that was normally off limits to all but the high-born elite, the
Gwaliors and Jaipurs and Kashmirs. Nobody ever knew how he fixed it,
but most members of that unit had since signed up to work on further
Sisodia ventures, the pay issue buried beneath the grandeur of such
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gestures. "And if he's needed he is always there," Gibreel added. "When
Charulata, a wonderful dancer-actress he'd often used, needed the
cancer treatment, suddenly years of unpaid fees materialized
overnight."
These days, thanks to a string of surprise box-office hits based on old
fables drawn from the _Katha-Sarit-Sagar_ compendium -- the "Ocean
of the Streams of Story", longer than the Arabian Nights and equally as
fantasticated -- Sisodia was no longer based exclusively in his tiny office
on Bombay's Readymoney Terrace, but had apartments in London and
New York, and Oscars in his toilets. The story was that he carried, in his
wallet, a photograph of the Hong Kong-based kung-phooey producer
Run Run Shaw, his supposed hero, whose name he was quite unable to
say. "Sometimes four Runs, sometimes a sixer," Gibreel told Allie, who
was happy to see him laugh. "But I can't swear. It's only a media
rumour."
Allie was grateful for Sisodia's attentiveness. The famous producer
appeared to have limitless time at his disposal, whereas Allie's schedule
had just then grown very full. She had signed a promotional contract
with a giant chain of freezer--food centres whose advertising agent, Mr.
Hal Valance, told Allie during a power breakfast -- grapefruit, dry toast,
decaf, all at Dorchester prices -- that her _profile_, "uniting as it does
the positive parameters (for our client) of 'coldness' and 'cool', is right
on line. Some stars end up being vampires, sucking attention away from
the brand name, you understand, but this feels like real synergy." So
now there were freezer-mart openings to cut ribbons at, and sales
conferences, and advertising shots with tubs of softscoop icecream; plus
the regular meetings with the designers and manufacturers of her
autograph lines of equipment and leisurewear; and, of course, her
fitness programme. She had signed on for Mr. Joshi's highly
recommended martial arts course at the local sports centre, and
continued, too, to force her legs to run five miles a day around the
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Fields, in spite of the soles-on-broken-glass pain. "No pop problem,"
Sisodia would send her off with a cheery wave. "I will iss iss issit here-
only until you return. To be with Gigibreel is for me a pip pip
privilege." She left him regaling Farishta with his inexhaustible
anecdotes, opinions and general chitchat, and when she returned he
would still be going strong. She came to identify several major themes;
notably, his corpus of statements about The Trouble With The English.
"The trouble with the Engenglish is that their hiss hiss history
happened overseas, so they dodo don't know what it means." -- "The see
secret of a dinner party in London is to ow ow outnumber the English.
If they're outnumbered they bebehave; otherwise, you're in trouble." --
"Go to the Che Che Chamber of Horrors and you'll see what's rah rah
wrong with the English. That's what they rereally like, caw corpses in
bubloodbaths, mad barbers, etc. etc. etera. Their pay papers full of
kinky sex and death. But they tell the whir world they're reserved, ist ist
istiff upper lip and so on, and we're ist ist istupid enough to believe."
Gibreel listened to this collection of prejudices with what seemed like
complete assent, irritating Allie profoundly. Were these generalizations
really all they saw of England? "No," Sisodia conceded with a shameless
smile. "But it feels googood to let this ist ist istuff out."
By the time the Maudsley people felt able to recommend a major
reduction in Gibreel's dosages, Sisodia had become so much a fixture at
his bedside, a sort of unofficial, eccentric and amusing layabout cousin,
that when he sprung his trap Gibreel and Allie were taken completely by
surprise.
He had been in touch with colleagues in Bombay: the seven producers
whom Gibreel had left in the lurch when he boarded Air India's Flight
420, _Bostan_. "All are eel, elated by the news of your survival," he
informed Gibreel. "Unf unf unfortunately, question of breach of
contract ararises." Various other parties were also interested in suing
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the renascent Farishta for plenty, in particular a starlet named Pimple
Billimoria, who alleged loss of earnings and professional damage.
"Could urn amount to curcrores," Sisodia said, looking lugubrious.
Allie was angry. "You stirred up this hornets' nest," she said. "I should
have known: you were too good to be true."
Sisodia became agitated. "Damn damn damn."
"Ladies present," Gibreel, still a little drug-woozy, warned; but Sisodia
windmilled his arms, indicating that he was trying to force words past
his overexcited teeth. Finally: "Damage limitation. My intention. Not
betrayal, you mumust not thithithink."
To hear Sisodia tell it, nobody back in Bombay really wanted to sue
Gibreel, to kill in court the goose that laid the golden eggs. All parties
recognized that the old projects were no longer capable of being
restarted: actors, directors, key crew members, even sound stages were
otherwise committed. All parties further recognized that Gibreel's
return from the dead was an item of a commercial value greater than
any of the defunct films; the question was how to utilize it best, to the
advantage of all concerned. His landing up in London also suggested
the possibility of an international connection, maybe overseas funding,
use of non--Indian locations, participation of stars "from foreign", etc.:
in short, it was time for Gibreel to emerge from retirement and face the
cameras again. "There is no chochoice," Sisodia explained to Gibreel,
who sat up in bed trying to clear his head. "If you refuse, they will move
against you _en bloc_, and not even your four four fortune could
suffice. Bankruptcy, jajajail, funtoosh."
Sisodia had talked himself into the hot seat: all the principals had
agreed to grant him executive powers in the matter, and he had put
together quite a package. The British-based entrepreneur Billy Battuta
was eager to invest both in sterling and in "blocked rupees", the non-
repatriable profits made by various British film distributors in the
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Indian subcontinent, which Battuta had taken over in return for cash
payments in negotiable currencies at a knockdown (37-point discount)
rate. All the Indian producers would chip in, and Miss Pimple
Billimoria, to guarantee her silence, was to be offered a showcase
supporting role featuring at least two dance numbers. Filming would be
spread between three continents -- Europe, India, the North African
coast. Gibreel got above-the--title billing, and three percentage points
of producers' net profits . . . "Ten," Gibreel interrupted, "against two of
the gross." His mind was obviously clearing. Sisodia didn't bat an
eyelid. "Ten against two," he agreed. "Pre-publicity campaign to be as
fo follows ..."
"But what's the project?" Allie Cone demanded. Mr. "Whisky" Sisodia
beamed from ear to ear. "Dear mamadam," he said. "He will play the
archangel, Gibreel."
The proposal was for a series of films, both historical and
contemporary, each concentrating on one incident from the angel's
long and illustrious career: a trilogy, at least. "Don't tell me," Allie
said, mocking the small shining mogul. "_Gibreel in Jahilia, Gibreel
Meets the Imam, Gibreel with the Butterfly Girl_." Sisodia wasn't one
bit embarrassed, but nodded proudly. "Stostorylines, draft scenarios,
cacasting options are already well in haha hand." That was too much
for Allie. "It stinks," she raged at him, and he retreated from her, a
trembling and placatory knee, while she. pursued him, until she was
actually chasing him around the apartment, banging into the furniture,
slamming doors. "It exploits his sickness, has nothing to do with his
present needs, and shows an utter contempt for his own wishes. He's
retired; can't you people respect that? He doesn't want to be a star. And
will you please stand still. I'm not going to eat you."
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He stopped running, but kept a cautious sofa between them. "Please see
that this is imp imp imp," he cried, his stammer crippling his tongue
on account of his anxiety. "Can the moomoon retire? Also, excuse, there
are his seven sig sig sig. _Signatures_. Committing him absolutely.
Unless and until you decide to commit him to a papapa." He gave up,
sweating freely.
"_A what?_"
"Pagal Khana. Asylum. That would be another wwwway."
Allie lifted a heavy brass inkwell in the shape of Mount Everest and
prepared to hurl it. "You really are a skunk," she began, but then
Gibreel was standing in the doorway, still rather pale, bony and hollow-
-eyed. "Alleluia," he said, "I am thinking that maybe I want this. Maybe
I need to go back to work."
"Gibreel sahib! I can't tell you how delighted. A star is reborn." Billy
Battuta was a surprise: no longer the hair-gel-and--fingerrings society
column shark, he was unshowily dressed in brass-- buttoned blazer and
blue jeans, and instead of the cocksure swagger Allie had expected there
was an attractive, almost deferential reticence. He had grown a neat
goatee beard which gave him a striking resemblance to the Christ--
image on the Turin Shroud. Welcoming the three of them (Sisodia had
picked them up in his limo, and the driver, Nigel, a sharp dresser from
St Lucia, spent the journey telling Gibreel how many other pedestrians
his lightning reflexes had saved from serious injury or death,
punctuating these reminiscences with car--phone conversations in
which mysterious deals involving amazing sums of money were
discussed), Billy had shaken Allie's hand warmly, and then fallen upon
Gibreel and hugged him in pure, infectious joy. His companion Mimi
Mamoulian was rather less low-key. "It's all fixed," she announced.
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"Fruit, starlets, paparazzi, talk-- shows, rumours, little hints of scandal:
everything a world figure requires. Flowers, personal security, zillion--
pound contracts. Make yourselves at home."
That was the general idea, Allie thought. Her initial opposition to the
whole scheme had been overcome by Gibreel's own interest, which, in
turn, prompted his doctors to go along with it, estimating that his
restoration to his familiar milieu -- _going home_, in a way -- might
indeed be beneficial. And Sisodia's purloining of the dream-narratives
he'd heard at Gibreel's bedside could be seen as serendipitous: for once
those stories were clearly placed in the artificial, fabricated world of the
cinema, it ought to become easier for Gibreel to see them as fantasies,
too. That Berlin Wall between the dreaming and waking state might
well be more rapidly rebuilt as a result. The bottom line was that it was
worth the try.
Things (being things) didn't work out quite as planned. Allie found
herself resenting the extent to which Sisodia, Battuta and Mimi moved
in on Gibreel's life, taking over his wardrobe and daily schedules, and
moving him out of Allie's apartment, declaring that the time for a
"permanent liaison" was not yet ripe, "imagewise". After the stint at
the Ritz, the movie star was given three rooms in Sisodia's cavernous,
designer--chic flat in an old mansion block near Grosvenor Square, all
Art Deco marbled floors and scumbling on the walls. Gibreel's own
passive acceptance of these changes was, for Allie, the most infuriating
aspect of all, and she began to comprehend the size of the step he'd
taken when he left behind what was clearly second nature to him, and
came hunting for her. Now that he was sinking back into that universe
of armed bodyguards and maids with breakfast trays and giggles, would
he dump her as dramatically as he had entered her life? Had she helped
to engineer a reverse migration that would leave her high and dry?
Gibreel stared out of newspapers, magazines, television sets, with many
different women on his arm, grinning foolishly. She hated it, but he
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refused to notice. "What are you worrying?" he dismissed her, while
sinking into a leather sofa the size of a small pick--up truck. "It's only
photo opportunities: business, that's all."
Worst of all: _he_ got jealous. As he came off the heavy drugs, and as
his work (as well as hers) began to force separations upon them, he
began to be possessed, once again, by that irrational, out-of--control
suspiciousness which had precipitated the ridiculous quarrel over the
Brunei cartoons. Whenever they met he would put her through the mill,
interrogating her minutely: where had she been, who had she seen, what
did he do, did she lead him on? She felt as if she were suffocating. His
mental illness, the new influences in his life, and now this nightly
thirddegree treatment: it was as though her real life, the one she
wanted, the one she was hanging in there and fighting for, was being
buried deeper and deeper under this avalanche of wrongnesses. _What
about what I need_, she felt like screaming, _when do I get to set the
terms?_ Driven to the very edge of her self--control, she asked, as a last
resort, her mother's advice. In her father's old study in the Moscow
Road house -- which Alicja had kept just the way Otto liked it, except
that now the curtains were drawn back to let in what light England
could come up with, and there were flower--vases at strategic points --
Alicja at first offered little more than world-weariness. "So a woman's
life-plans are being smothered by a man's," she said, not unkindly. "So
welcome to your gender. I see it's strange for you to be out of control."
And Allie confessed: she wanted to leave him, but found she couldn't.
Not just because of guilt about abandoning a seriously unwell person;
also because of "grand passion", because of the word that still dried her
tongue when she tried to say it. "You want his child," Alicja put her
finger on it. At first Allie blazed: "I want my child," but then, subsiding
abruptly, blowing her nose, she nodded dumbly, and was on the verge of
tears.
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"You want your head examining is what," Alicja comforted her. How
long since they had been like this in one another's arms? Too long. And
maybe it would be the last time... Alicja hugged her daughter, said: "So
dry your eyes. Comes now the good news. Your affairs might be shot to
ribbons, but your old mother is in better shape."
There was an American college professor, a certain Boniek, big in
genetic engineering. "Now don't start, dear, you don't know anything,
it's not all Frankenstein and geeps, it has many beneficial
applications," Alicja said with evident nervousness, and Allie,
overcoming her surprise and her own red-rimmed unhappiness, burst
into convulsive, liberating sobs of laughter; in which her mother joined.
"At your age," Allie wept, "you ought to be ashamed." -- "Well, I'm
not," the future Mrs. Boniek rejoined. "A professor, and in Stanford,
California, so he brings the sunshine also. I intend to spend many
hours working on my tan."
When she discovered (a report found by chance in a desk drawer at the
Sisodia palazzo) that Gibreel had started having her followed, Allie did,
at last, make the break. She scribbled a note -- _This is killing me_ --
slipped it inside the report, which she placed on the desktop; and left
without saying goodbye. Gibreel never rang her up. He was rehearsing,
in those days, for his grand public reappearance at the latest in a
successful series of stage song-and-dance shows featuring Indian movie
stars and staged by one of Billy Battuta's companies at Earls Court. He
was to be the unannounced, surprise top-of-the-bill show-stopper, and
had been rehearsing dance routines with the show's chorus line for
weeks: also rcacquainting himself with the art of mouthing to playback
music. Rumours of the identity of the Mystery Man or Dark Star were
being carefully circulated and monitored by Battuta's promo men, and
the Valance advertising agency had been hired to devise a series of
"teaser" radio commercials and a local 48--sheet poster campaign.
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Gibreel's arrival on the Earls Court stage -- he was to be lowered from
the flies surrounded by clouds of cardboard and smoke -- was the
intended climax to the English segment of his re-entry into his
superstardom; next stop, Bombay. Deserted, as he called it, by Alleluia
Cone, he once more "refused to crawl"; and immersed himself in work.
The next thing that went wrong was that Billy Battuta got himself
arrested in New York for his Satanic sting. Allie, reading about it in the
Sunday papers, swallowed her pride and called Gibreel at the rehearsal
rooms to warn him against consorting with such patently criminal
elements. "Battuta's a hood," she insisted. "His whole manner was a
performance, a fake. He wanted to be sure he'd be a hit with the
Manhattan dowagers, so he made us his tryout audience. That goatee!
And a college blazer, for God's sake: how did we fall for it?" But Gibreel
was cold and withdrawn; she had ditched him, in his book, and he
wasn't about to take advice from deserters. Besides, Sisodia and the
Battuta promo team had assured him -- and he had grilled them about
it all right -- that Billy's problems had no relevance to the gala night
(Filmmela, that was the name) because the financial arrangements
remained solid, the monies for fees and guarantees had already been
allocated, all the Bombay--based stars had confirmed, and would
participate as planned. "Plans fifilling up fast," Sisodia promised.
"Shoshow must go on."
The next thing that went wrong was inside Gibreel.
Sisodia's determination to keep people guessing about this Dark Star
meant that Gibreel had to enter the Earls Court stage--door dressed in a
burqa. So that even his sex remained a mystery. He was given the largest
dressing-room -- a black five-pointed star had been stuck on the door --
and was unceremoniously locked in by the bespectacled genuform
producer. In the dressing-room he found his angel-costume, including a
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contraption that, when tied around his forehead, would cause
lightbulbs to glow behind him, creating the illusion of a halo; and a
closed — circuit television, on which he would be able to watch the show
-- Mithun and Kimi cavorting for the "disco diwane" set; Jayapradha
and Rekha (no relation: the megastar, not a figment on a rug)
submitting regally to on-stage interviews, in which Jaya divulged her
views on polygamy while Rekha fantasized about alternative lives -- "If
I'd been born out of India, I'd have been a painter in Paris"; heman
stunts from Vinod and Dharmendra; Sridevi getting her sari wet -- until
it was time for him to take up his position on a winch-operated
"chariot" high above the stage. There was a cordless telephone, on
which Sisodia called to tell him that the house was full -- "All sorts are
here," he triumphed, and proceeded to offer Gibreel his technique of
crowd analysis: you could tell the Pakistanis because they dressed up to
the gills, the Indians because they dressed down, and the Bangladeshis
because they dressed badly, "all that pupurple and pink and gogo gold
gota that they like" -- and which otherwise remained silent; and, finally,
a large gift-wrapped box, a little present from his thoughtful producer,
which turned out to contain Miss Pimple Billimoria wearing a winsome
expression and a quantity of gold ribbon. The movies were in town.
The strange feeling began -- that is, _returned_ -- when he was in the
"chariot", waiting to descend. He thought of himself as moving along a
route on which, any moment now, a choice would be offered him, a
choice -- the thought formulated itself in his head without any help
from him -- between two realities, this world and another that was also
right there, visible but unseen. He felt slow, heavy, distanced from his
own consciousness, and realized that he had not the faintest idea which
path he would choose, which world he would enter. The doctors had
been wrong, he now perceived, to treat him for schizophrenia; the
splitting was not in him, but in the universe. As the chariot began its
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descent towards the immense, tidal roar that had begun to swell below
him, he rehearsed his opening line -- _My name is Gibreel Farishta, and
I'm back_ -- and heard it, so to speak, in stereo, because it, too,
belonged in both worlds, with a different meaning in each; -- and now
the lights hit him, he raised his arms high, he was returning wreathed
in clouds, -- and the crowd had recognized him, and his fellow-
performers, too; people were rising from their seats, every man, woman
and child in the auditorium, surging towards the stage, unstoppable,
like a sea. -- The first man to reach him had time to scream out
_Remember me, Gibreel? With the six toes? Maslama, sir: John
Maslama. I kept secret your presence among us; but yes, I have been
speaking out about the coming of the Lord, I have gone before you, a
voice crying in the wilderness, the crooked shall be made straight and
the rough places plain_ -- but then he had been dragged away, and the
security guards were around Gibreel, _they're out of control, it's a
fucking riot, you'll have to_ -- but he wouldn't go, because he'd seen
that at least half the crowd were wearing bizarre headgear, rubber horns
to make them look like demons, as if they were badges of belonging and
defiance; -- and in that instant when he saw the adversary's sign he felt
the universe fork and he stepped down the left-hand path.
The official version of what followed, and the one accepted by all the
news media, was that Gibreel Farishta had been lifted out of the danger
area in the same winch-operated chariot in which he'd descended, and
from which he hadn't had time to emerge; -- and that it would therefore
have been easy for him to make his escape, from his isolated and
unwatched place high above the melee. This version proved resilient
enough to survive the "revelation" in the Voice that the assistant stage
manager in charge of the winch had not, repeat not, set it in motion
after it landed; -- that, in fact, the chariot remained grounded
throughout the riot of the ecstatic film fans; -- and that substantial
sums of money had been paid to the backstage staff to persuade them
to collude in the fabrication of a story which, because totally fictional,
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was realistic enough for the newspaper-buying public to believe.
However, the rumour that Gibreel Farishta had actually levitated away
from the Earls Court stage and vanished into the blue under his own
steam spread rapidly through the city's Asian population, and was fed
by many accounts of the halo that had been seen streaming out from a
point just behind his head. Within days of the second disappearance of
Gibreel Farishta, vendors of novelties in Brickhall, Wembley and
Brixton were selling as many toy haloes (green fluorescent hoops were
the most popular) as headbands to which had been affixed a pair of
rubber horns.
He was hovering high over London! -- Haha, they couldn't touch him
now, the devils rushing upon him in that Pandemonium! -- He looked
down upon the city and saw the English. The trouble with the English
was that they were English: damn cold fish! -- Living underwater most
of the year, in days the colour of night! -- Well: he was here now, the
great Transformer, and this time there'd be some changes made -- the
laws of nature are the laws of its transformation, and he was the very
person to utilize the same! -- Yes, indeed: this time, clarity.
He would show them -- yes! -- his _power_. -- These powerless English! -
- Did they not think their history would return to haunt them? -- "The
native is an oppressed person whose permanent dream is to become the
persecutor" (Fanon). English women no longer bound him; the
conspiracy stood exposed! -- Then away with all fogs. He would make
this land anew. He was the Archangel, Gibreel. -- _And I'm back!_
The face of the adversary hung before him once again, sharpening,
clarifying. Moony with a sardonic curl to the lips: but the name still
eluded . . . _tcha_, like tea? _Shah_, a king? Or like a (royal? tea?)
dance: _Shatchacha_. -- Nearly there. -- And the nature of the adversary:
self--hating, constructing a false ego, auto--destructive. Fanon again:
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"In this way the individual" -- the Fanonian _native_ -- "accepts the
disintegration ordained by God, bows down before the settler and his
lot, and by a kind of interior restabilization acquires a stony calm." --
_I ' 11 give him stony calm!_ -- Native and settler, that old dispute,
continuing now upon these soggy streets, with reversed categories. -- It
occurred to him now that he was forever joined to the adversary, their
arms locked around one another's bodies, mouth to mouth, head to
tail, as when they fell to earth: when they settled. -- As things begin so
they continue. -- Yes, he was coming closer. -- Chichi? Sasa? -- _My
other, my love_ . . .
. . . No! -- He floated over parkland and cried out, frightening the birds.
-- No more of these England-induced ambiguities, these Biblical--
Satanic confusions! -- Clarity, clarity, at all costs clarity! -- This Shaitan
was no fallen angel. -- Forget those son-ofthe-morning fictions; this was
no good boy gone bad, but pure evil. Truth was, he wasn't an angel at
all! -- "He was of the djinn, so he transgressed." -- Quran 18 :50, there it
was as plain as the day. -- How much more straightforward this version
was! How much more practical, down--to--earth, comprehensible! --
Iblis/ Shaitan standing for the darkness, Gibreel for the light. -- Out,
out with these sentimentalities: _joining, locking together, love_. Seek
and destroy: that was all.
. . . O most slippery, most devilish of cities! -- In which such stark,
imperative oppositions were drowned beneath an endless drizzle of
greys. -- How right he'd been, for instance, to banish those Satanico-
Biblical doubts of his, -- those concerning God's unwillingness to
permit dissent among his lieutenants, -- for as Iblis/Shaitan was no
angel, so there had been no angelic dissidents for the Divinity to
repress; -- and those concerning forbidden fruit, and God's supposed
denial of moral choice to his creations; -- for nowhere in the entire
Recitation was that Tree called (as the Bible had it) the root of the
knowledge of good and evil. _It was simply a different Tree!_ Shaitan,
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tempting the Edenic couple, called it only "the Tree of Immortality" --
and as he was a liar, so the truth (discovered by inversion) was that the
banned fruit (apples were not specified) hung upon the Death-Tree, no
less, the slayer of men's souls. -- What remained now of that
moralityfearing God? Where was He to be found? -- Only down below,
in English hearts. -- Which he, Gibreel, had come to transform.
Abracadabra!
Hocus Pocus!
But where should he begin? -- Well, then, the trouble with the English
was their:
Their:
_In a word_, Gibreel solemnly pronounced, _their weather_.
Gibreel Farishta floating on his cloud formed the opinion that the
moral fuzziness of the English was meteorologically induced. "When
the day is not warmer than the night," he reasoned, "when the light is
not brighter than the dark, when the land is not drier than the sea, then
clearly a people will lose the power to make distinctions, and commence
to see everything -- from political parties to sexual partners to religious
beliefs -- as much--the--same, nothing-to-choose, give-or-take. What
folly! For truth is extreme, it is _so_ and not _thus_, it is _him_ and
not _her_; a partisan matter, not a spectator sport. It is, in brief,
_heated_. City," he cried, and his voice rolled over the metropolis like
thunder, "I am going to tropicalize you."
Gibreel enumerated the benefits of the proposed metamorphosis of
London into a tropical city: increased moral definition, institution of a
national siesta, development of vivid and expansive patterns of
behaviour among the populace, higherquality popular music, new birds
in the trees (macaws, peacocks, cockatoos), new trees under the birds
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(coco--palms, tamarind, banyans with hanging beards). Improved street-
-life, outrageously coloured flowers (magenta, vermilion, neon-green),
spidermonkeys in the oaks. A new mass market for domestic
airconditioning units, ceiling fans, anti-mosquito coils and sprays. A
coir and copra industry. Increased appeal of London as a centre for
conferences, etc.; better cricketers; higher emphasis on ballcontrol
among professional footballers, the traditional and soulless English
commitment to "high workrate" having been rendered obsolete by the
heat. Religious fervour, political ferment, renewal of interest in the
intelligentsia. No more British reserve; hot-water bottles to be banished
forever, replaced in the foetid nights by the making of slow and
odorous love. Emergence of new social values: friends to commence
dropping in on one another without making appointments, closure of
old folks' homes, emphasis on the extended family. Spicier food; the
use of water as well as paper in English toilets; the joy of running fully
dressed through the first rains of the monsoon.
Disadvantages: cholera, typhoid, legionnaires' disease, cockroaches,
dust, noise, a culture of excess.
Standing upon the horizon, spreading his arms to fill the sky, Gibreel
cried: "Let it be."
Three things happened, fast.
The first was that, as the unimaginably colossal, elemental forces of the
transformational process rushed out of his body (for was he not their
_embodiment?_), he was temporarily overcome by a warm, spinning
heaviness, a soporific churning (not at all unpleasant) that made him
close, just for an instant, his eyes.
The second was that the moment his eyes were shut the horned and
goaty features of Mr. Saladin Chamcha appeared, on the screen of his
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mind, as sharp and well-defined as could be; accompanied, as if it were
sub--titled there, by the adversary's name.
And the third thing was that Gibreel Farishta opened his eyes to find
himself collapsed, once again, on Alleluia Cone's doorstep, begging her
forgiveness, weeping _0 God, it happened, it really happened again_.
She put him to bed; he found himself escaping into sleep, diving
headlong into it, away from Proper London and towards Jahilia, because
the real terror had crossed the broken boundary wall, and stalked his
waking hours.
"A homing instinct: one crazy heading for another," Alicja said when
her daughter phoned with the news. "You must be putting out a signal,
some sort of bleeping thing." As usual, she hid her concern beneath
wisecracks. Finally she came out with it: "This time be sensible,
Alleluia, okay? This time the asylum."
"We'll see, mother. He's asleep right now."
"So he isn't going to wake up?" Alicja expostulated, then controlled
herself. "All right, I know, it's your life. Listen, isn't this weather
something? They say it could last months: 'blocked pattern', I heard on
television, rain over Moscow, while here it's a tropical heatwaye. I called
Boniek at Stanford and told him: now we have weather in London, too."
VI. Return to Jahilia
When Baal the poet saw a single teardrop the colour of blood emerging
from the corner of the left eye of the statue of Al-Lat in the House of
the Black Stone, he understood that the Prophet Mahound was on his
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way back to Jahilia after an exile of a quarter-century. He belched
violently -- an affliction of age, this, its coarseness seeming to
correspond to the general thickening induced by the years, a thickening
of the tongue as well as the body, a slow congealment of the blood, that
had turned Baal at fifty into a figure quite unlike his quick young self.
Sometimes he felt that the air itself had thickened, resisting him, so
that even a shortish walk could leave him panting, with an ache in his
arm and an irregularity in his chest . . . and Mahound must have
changed, too, returning as he was in splendour and omnipotence to the
place whence he fled emptyhanded, without so much as a wife.
Mahound at sixty-five. Our names meet, separate, and meet again, Baal
thought, but the people going by the names do not remain the same. He
left AlLat to emerge into bright sunlight, and heard from behind his
back a little snickering laugh. He turned, weightily; nobody to be seen.
The hem of a robe vanishing around a corner. These days, down-at--heel
Baal often made strangers giggle in the street. "Bastard!" he shouted at
the top of his voice, scandalizing the other worshippers in the House.
Baal, the decrepit poet, behaving badly again. He shrugged and headed
for home.
The city of Jahilia was no longer built of sand. That is to say, the
passage of the years, the sorcery of the desert winds, the petrifying
moon, the forgetfulness of the people and the inevitability of progress
had hardened the town, so that it had lost its old, shifting, provisional
quality of a mirage in which men could live, and become a prosaic place,
quotidian and (like its poets) poor. Mahound's arm had grown long; his
power had encircled Jahilia, cutting off its life--blood, its pilgrims and
caravans. The fairs of Jahilia, these days, were pitiful to behold.
Even the Grandee himself had acquired a theadbare look, his white hair
as full of gaps as his teeth. His concubines were dying of old age, and he
lacked the energy -- or, so the rumours murmured in the desultory
alleys of the city, the need -- to replace them. Some days he forgot to
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shave, which added to his look of dilapidation and defeat. Only Hind
was the same as ever.
She had always had something of a reputation as a witch, who could
wish illnesses upon you if you failed to bow down before her litter as it
passed, an occultist with the power of transforming men into desert
snakes when she had had her fill of them, and then catching them by
the tail and having them cooked in their skins for her evening meal.
Now that she had reached sixty the legend of her necromancy was being
given new substantiation by her extraordinary and unnatural failure to
age. While all around her hardened into stagnation, while the old gangs
of Sharks grew middle--aged and squatted on Street corners playing
cards and rolling dice, while the old knot--witches and contortionists
starved to death in the gullies, while a generation grew up whose
conservatism and unquestioning worship of the material world was
born of their knowledge of the probability of unemployment and
penury, while the great city lost its sense of itself and even the cult of
the dead declined in popularity to the relief of the camels of Jahilia,
whose dislike of being left with severed hamstrings on human graves
was easy to comprehend .. . while Jahilia decayed, in short, Hind
remained unwrinkled, her body as firm as any young woman's, her hair
as black as crow feathers, her eyes sparkling like knives, her bearing still
haughty, her voice still brooking no opposition. Hind, not Simbel,
ruled the city now; or so she undeniably believed.
As the Grandee grew into a soft and pursy old age, Hind took to writing
a series of admonitory and hortatory epistles or bulls to the people of
the city. These were pasted up on every street in town. So it was that
Hind and not Abu Simbel came to be thought of by Jahilians as the
embodiment of the city, its living avatar, because they found in her
physical unchangingness and in the unflinching resolve of her
proclamations a description of themselves far more palatable than the
picture they saw in the mirror of Simbel's crumbling face. Hind's
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posters were more influential than any poet's verses. She was still
sexually voracious, and had slept with every writer in the city (though it
was a long time since Baal had been allowed into her bed); now the
writers were used up, discarded, and she was rampant. With sword as
well as pen. She was Hind, who had joined the Jahilian army disguised
as a man, using sorcery to deflect all spears and swords, seeking out her
brothers' killer through the storm of war. Hind, who butchered the
Prophet's uncle, and ate old Hamza's liver and his heart.
Who could resist her? For her eternal youth which was also theirs; for
her ferocity which gave them the illusion of being invincible; and for
her bulls, which were refusals of time, of history, of age, which sang the
city's undimmed magnificence and defied the garbage and decrepitude
of the streets, which insisted on greatness, on leadership, on
immortality, on the status of Jahilians as custodians of the divine . . .
for these writings the people forgave her her promiscuity, they turned a
blind eye to the stories of Hind being weighed in emeralds on her
birthday, they ignored rumours of orgies, they laughed when told of the
size of her wardrobe, of the five hundred and eighty-one nightgowns
made of gold leaf and the four hundred and twenty pairs of ruby
slippers. The citizens of Jahilia dragged themselves through their
increasingly dangerous streets, in which murder for small change was
becoming commonplace, in which old women were being raped and
ritually slaughtered, in which the riots of the starving were brutally put
down by Hind's personal police force, the Manticorps; and in spite of
the evidence of their eyes, stomachs and wallets, they believed what
Hind whispered in their ears: Rule, Jahilia, glory of the world.
Not all of them, of course. Not, for example, Baal. Who looked away
from public affairs and wrote poems of unrequited love.
Munching a white radish, he arrived home, passing beneath a dingy
archway in a cracking wall. Here there was a small urinous courtyard
littered with feathers, vegetable peelings, blood. There was no sign of
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human life: only flies, shadows, fear. These days it was necessary to be
on one's guard. A sect of murderous hashashin roamed the city.
Affluent persons were advised to approach their homes on the opposite
side of the street, to make sure that the house was not being watched;
when the coast was clear they would rush for the door and shut it
behind them before any lurking criminal could push his way in. Baal
did not bother with such precautions. Once he had been affluent, but
that was a quarter of a century ago. Now there was no demand for
satires -- the general fear of Mahound had destroyed the market for
insults and wit. And with the decline of the cult of the dead had come a
sharp drop in orders for epitaphs and triumphal odes of revenge. Times
were hard all around.
Dreaming of long-lost banquets, Baal climbed an unsteady wooden
staircase to his small upstairs room. What did he have to steal? He
wasn't worth the knife. Opening his door, he began to enter, when a
push sent him tumbling to bloody his nose against the far wall. "Don't
kill me," he squealed blindly. "O God, don't murder me, for pity's sake,
O."
The other hand closed the door. Baal knew that no matter how loudly
he screamed they would remain alone, sealed off from the world in that
uncaring room. Nobody would come; he himself, hearing his neighbour
shriek, would have pushed his cot against the door.
The intruder's hooded cloak concealed his face completely. Baal
mopped his bleeding nose, kneeling, shaking uncontrollably. "I've got
no money," he implored. "I've got nothing." Now the stranger spoke:
"If a hungry dog looks for food, he does not look in the doghouse."
And then, after a pause: "Baal. There's not much left of you. I had
hoped for more."
Now Baal felt oddly affronted as well as terrified. Was this some kind of
demented fan, who would kill him because he no longer lived up to the
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power of his old work? Still trembling, he attempted self--deprecation.
"To meet a writer is, usually, to be disappointed," he offered. The other
ignored this remark. "Mahound is coming," he said.
This flat statement filled Baal with the most profound terror. "What's
that got to do with me?" he cried. "What does he want? It was a long
time ago -- a lifetime -- more than a lifetime. What does he want? Are
you from, are you sent by him?"
"His memory is as long as his face," the intruder said, pushing back his
hood. "No, I am not his messenger. You and I have something in
common. We are both afraid of him."
"I know you," Baal said.
"Yes."
"The way you speak. You're a foreigner."
"'A revolution of water--carriers, immigrants and slaves,'" the stranger
quoted. "Your words."
"You're the immigrant," Baal remembered. "The Persian. Sulaiman."
The Persian smiled his crooked smile. "Salman," he corrected. "Not
wise, but peaceful."
"You were one of the closest to him," Baal said, perplexed.
"The closer you are to a conjurer," Salman bitterly replied, "the easier
to spot the trick."
And Gibreel dreamed this:
At the oasis of Yathrib the followers of the new faith of Submission
found themselves landless, and therefore poor. For many years they
financed themselves by acts of brigandage, attacking the rich camel-
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trains on their way to and from Jahilia. Mahound had no time for
scruples, Salman told Baal, no qualms about ends and means. The
faithful lived by lawlessness, but in those years Mahound -- or should
one say the Archangel Gibreel? -- should one say Al-Lah? -- became
obsessed by law. Amid the palm-trees of the oasis Gibreel appeared to
the Prophet and found himself spouting rules, rules, rules, until the
faithful could scarcely bear the prospect of any more revelation, Salman
said, rules about every damn thing, if a man farts let him turn his face
to the wind, a rule about which hand to use for the purpose of cleaning
one's behind. It was as if no aspect of human existence was to be left
unregulated, free. The revelation -- the _recitation_ -- told the faithful
how much to eat, how deeply they should sleep, and which sexual
positions had received divine sanction, so that they learned that
sodomy and the missionary position were approved of by the archangel,
whereas the forbidden postures included all those in which the female
was on top. Gibreel further listed the permitted and forbidden subjects
of conversation, and earmarked the parts of the body which could not
be scratched no matter how unbearably they might itch. He vetoed the
consumption of prawns, those bizarre other-worldly creatures which no
member of the faithful had ever seen, and required animals to be killed
slowly, by bleeding, so that by experiencing their deaths to the full they
might arrive at an understanding of the meaning of their lives, for it is
only at the moment of death that living creatures understand that life
has been real, and not a sort of dream. And Gibreel the archangel
specified the manner in which a man should be buried, and how his
property should be divided, so that Salman the Persian got to
wondering what manner of God this was that sounded so much like a
businessman. This was when he had the idea that destroyed his faith,
because he recalled that of course Mahound himself had been a
businessman, and a damned successful one at that, a person to whom
organization and rules came naturally, so how excessively convenient it
was that he should have come up with such a very businesslike
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archangel, who handed down the management decisions of this highly
corporate, if non-corporeal, God.
After that Salman began to notice how useful and well timed the
angel's revelations tended to be, so that when the faithful were
disputing Mahound's views on any subject, from the possibility of
space travel to the permanence of Hell, the angel would turn up with an
answer, and he always supported Mahound, stating beyond any shadow
of a doubt that it was impossible that a man should ever walk upon the
moon, and being equally positive on the transient nature of damnation:
even the most evil of doers would eventually be cleansed by hellfire and
find their way into the perfumed gardens, Gulistan and Bostan. It
would have been different, Salman complained to Baal, if Mahound
took up his positions after receiving the revelation from Gibreel; but
no, he just laid down the law and the angel would confirm it afterwards;
so I began to get a bad smell in my nose, and I thought, this must be
the odour of those fabled and legendary unclean creatures, what's their
name, prawns.
The fishy smell began to obsess Salman, who was the most highly
educated of Mahound's intimates owing to the superior educational
system then on offer in Persia. On account of his scholastic
advancement Salman was made Mahound's official scribe, so that it fell
to him to write down the endlessly proliferating rules. All those
revelations of convenience, he told Baal, and the longer I did the job the
worse it got. -- For a time, however, his suspicions had to be shelved,
because the armies of Jahilia marched on Yathrib, determined to swat
the flies who were pestering their camel--trains and interfering with
business. What followed is well known, no need for me to repeat,
Salman said, but then his immodesty burst out of him and forced him
to tell Baal how he personally had saved Yathrib from certain
destruction, how he had preserved Mahound's neck with his idea of a
ditch. Salman had persuaded the Prophet to have a huge trench dug all
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the way around the unwalled oasis settlement, making it too wide even
for the fabled Arab horses of the famous Jahilian cavalry to leap across.
A ditch: with sharpened stakes at the bottom. When the Jahilians saw
this foul piece of unsportsmanlike hole-digging their sense of chivalry
and honour obliged them to behave as if the ditch had not been dug,
and to ride their horses at it, full--tilt. The flower of Jahilia's army,
human as well as equine, ended up impaled on the pointed sticks of
Salman's Persian deviousness, trust an immigrant not to play the game.
-- And after the defeat of Jahilia? Salman lamented to Baal: You'd have
thought I'd have been a hero, I'm not a vain man but where were the
public honours, where was the gratitude of Mahound, why didn't the
archangel mention _me_ in despatches? Nothing, not a syllable, it was
as if the faithful thought of my ditch as a cheap trick, too, an
outlandish thing, dishonouring, unfair; as if their manhood had been
damaged by the thing, as though I'd hurt their pride by saving their
skins. I kept my mouth shut and said nothing, but I lost a lot of friends
after that, I can tell you, people hate you to do them a good turn.
In spite of the ditch of Yathrib, the faithful lost a good many men in
the war against Jahilia. On their raiding sorties they lost as many lives
as they claimed. And after the end of the war, hey presto, there was the
Archangel Gibreel instructing the surviving males to marry the widowed
women, lest by remarrying outside the faith they be lost to Submission.
Oh, such a practical angel, Salman sneered to Baal. By now he had
produced a bottle of toddy from the folds of his cloak and the two men
were drinking steadily in the failing light. Salman grew ever more
garrulous as the yellow liquid in the bottle went down; Baal couldn't
recall when he'd last heard anyone talk up such a storm. O, those
matter--of--fact revelations, Salman cried, we were even told it didn't
matter if we were already married, we could have up to four marriages if
we could afford it, well, you can imagine, the lads really went for that.
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What finally finished Salman with Mahound: the question of the
women; and of the Satanic verses. Listen, I'm no gossip, Salman
drunkenly confided, but after his wife's death Mahound was no angel,
you understand my meaning. But in Yathrib he almost met his match.
Those women up there: they turned his beard half-white in a year. The
point about our Prophet, my dear Baal, is that he didn't like his women
to answer back, he went for mothers and daughters, think of his first
wife and then Ayesha: too old and too young, his two loves. He didn't
like to pick on someone his own size. But in Yathrib the women are
different, you don't know, here injahilia you're used to ordering your
females about but up there they won't put up with it. When a man gets
married he goes to live with his wife's people! Imagine! Shocking, isn't
it? And throughout the marriage the wife keeps her own tent. If she
wants to get rid of her husband she turns the tent round to face in the
opposite direction, so that when he comes to her he finds fabric where
the door should be, and that's that, he's out, divorced, not a thing he
can do about it. Well, our girls were beginning to go for that type of
thing, getting who knows what sort of ideas in their heads, so at once,
bang, out comes the rule book, the angel starts pouring out rules about
what women mustn't do, he starts forcing them back into the docile
attitudes the Prophet prefers, docile or maternal, walking three steps
behind or sitting at home being wise and waxing their chins. How the
women of Yathrib laughed at the faithful, I swear, but that man is a
magician, nobody could resist his charm; the faithful women did as he
ordered them. They Submitted: he was offering them Paradise, after all.
"Anyway," Salman said near the bottom of the bottle, "finally I decided
to test him."
One night the Persian scribe had a dream in which he was hovering
above the figure of Mahound at the Prophet's cave on Mount Cone. At
first Salman took this to be no more than a nostalgic reverie of the old
days in Jahilia, but then it struck him that his point of view, in the
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dream, had been that of the archangel, and at that moment the memory
of the incident of the Satanic verses came back to him as vividly as if
the thing had happened the previous day. "Maybe I hadn't dreamed of
myself as Gibreel," Salman recounted. "Maybe I was Shaitan." The
realization of this possibility gave him his diabolic idea. After that,
when he sat at the Prophet's feet, writing down rules rules rules, he
began, surreptitiously, to change things.
"Little things at first. If Mahound recited a verse in which God was
described as _all-hearing, all-knowing_, I would write, _all-knowing,
all-wise_. Here's the point: Mahound did not notice the alterations. So
there I was, actually writing the Book, or rewriting, anyway, polluting
the word of God with my own profane language. But, good heavens, if
my poor words could not be distinguished from the Revelation by
God's own Messenger, then what did that mean? What did that say
about the quality of the divine poetry? Look, I swear, I was shaken to
my soul. It's one thing to be a smart bastard and have half--suspicions
about funny business, but it's quite another thing to find out that
you're right. Listen: I changed my life for that man. I left my country,
crossed the world, settled among people who thought me a slimy
foreign coward for saving their, who never appreciated what I, but never
mind that. The truth is that what! expected when I made that first tiny
change, _all-wise_ instead of _all-hearing_ -- what I _wanted_ --was to
read it back to the Prophet, and he'd say, What's the matter with you,
Salman, arc you going deaf? And I'd say, Oops, O God, bit of a slip, how
could I, and correct myself. But it didn't happen; and now I was writing
the Revelation and nobody was noticing, and I didn't have the courage
to own up. I was scared silly, I can tell you. Also: I was sadder than I
have ever been. So I had to go on doing it. Maybe he'd just missed out
once, I thought, anybody can make a mistake. So the next time I
changed a bigger thing. He said _Christian_, I wrote down _Jew_. He'd
notice that, surely; how could he not? But when I read him the chapter
he nodded and thanked me politely, and I went out of his tent with
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tears in my eyes. After that I knew my days in Yathrib were numbered;
but I had to go on doing it. I had to. There is no bitterness like that of a
man who finds out he has been believing in a ghost. I would fall, I
knew, but he would fall with me. So I went on with my devilment,
changing verses, until one day I read my lines to him and saw him
frown and shake his head as if to clear his mind, and then nod his
approval slowly, but with a little doubt. I knew I'd reached the edge,
and that the next time I rewrote the Book he'd know everything. That
night I lay awake, holding his fate in my hands as well as my own. If I
allowed myself to be destroyed I could destroy him, too. I had to
choose, on that awful night, whether I preferred death with revenge to
life without anything. As you see, I chose: life. Before dawn I left
Yathrib on my camel, and made my way, suffering numerous
misadventures I shall not trouble to relate, back tojahilia. And now
Mahound is coming in triumph; so I shall lose my life after all. And his
power has grown too great for me to unmake him now."
Baal asked: "Why are you sure he will kill you?"
Salman the Persian answered: "It's his Word against mine."
When Salman had slipped into unconsciousness on the floor, Baal lay
on his scratchy straw--filled mattress, feeling the steel ring of pain
around his forehead, the flutter of warning in his heart. Often his
tiredness with his life had made him wish not to grow old, but, as
Salman had said, to dream of a thing is very different from being faced
with the fact of it. For some time now he had been conscious that the
world was closing in around him. He could no longer pretend that his
eyes were what they ought to be, and their dimness made his life even
more shadowy, harder to grasp. All this blurring and loss of detail: no
wonder his poetry had gone down the drain. His ears were getting to be
unreliable, too. At this rate he'd soon end up sealed off from everything
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by the loss of his senses. . . but maybe he'd never get the chance.
Mahound was coming. Maybe he would never kiss another woman.
Mahound, Mahound. Why has this chatterbox drunk come to me, he
thought angrily. What do I have to do with his treachery? Everyone
knows why I wrote those satires years ago; he must know. How the
Grandee threatened and bullied. I can't be held responsible. And
anyway: who is he, that prancing sneering boy-wonder, Baal of the
cutting tongue? I don't recognize him. Look at me: heavy, dull,
nearsighted, soon to be deaf. Who do I threaten? Not a soul. He began
to shake Salman: wake up, I don't want to be associated with you,
you'll get me into trouble.
The Persian snored on, sitting splay-legged on the floor with his back to
the wall, his head hanging sideways like a doll"s; Baa!, racked by
headache, fell back on to his cot. His verses, he thought, what had they
been? _What kind of idea_ damn it, he couldn't even remember them
properly _does Submission seem today_ yes, something like that, after
all this time it was scarcely surprising _an idea that runs away_ that was
the end anyhow. Mahound, any new idea is asked two questions. When
it's weak: will it compromise? We know the answer to that one. And
now, Mahound, on your return to Jahilia, time for the second question:
How do you behave when you win? When your enemies are at your
mercy and your power has become absolute: what then? We have all
changed: all of us except Hind. Who seems, from what this drunkard
says, more like a woman of Yathrib than Jahilia. No wonder the two of
you didn't hit it off: she wouldn't be your mother or your child.
As he drifted towards sleep, Baa! surveyed his own uselessness, his
failed art. Now that he had abdicated all public platforms, his verses
were full of loss: of youth, beauty, love, health, innocence, purpose,
energy, certainty, hope. Loss of knowledge. Loss of money. The loss of
Hind. Figures walked away from him in his odes, and the more
passionately he called out to them the faster they moved. The landscape
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of his poetry was still the desert, the shifting dunes with the plumes of
white sand blowing from their peaks. Soft mountains, uncompleted
journeys, the impermanence of tents. How did one map a country that
blew into a new form every day? Such questions made his language too
abstract, his imagery too fluid, his metre too inconstant. It led him to
create chimeras of form, lionheaded goatbodied serpenttailed
impossibilities whose shapes felt obliged to change the moment they
were set, so that the demotic forced its way into lines of classical purity
and images of love were constantly degraded by the intrusion of
elements of farce. Nobody goes for that stuff, he thought for the
thousand and first time, and as unconsciousness arrived he concluded,
comfortingly: Nobody remembers me. Oblivion is safety. Then his heart
missed a beat and he came wide awake, frightened, cold. Mahound,
maybe I'll cheat you of your revenge. He spent the night awake,
listening to Salman's rolling, oceanic snores.
Gibreel dreamed campfires:
A famous and unexpected figure walks, one night, between the
campfires of Mahound's army. Perhaps on account of the dark, -- or it
might be because of the improbability of his presence here, -- it seems
that the Grandee of Jahilia has regained, in this final moment of his
power, some of the strength of his earlier days. He has come alone; and
is led by Khalid the erstwhile water—carrier and the former slave Bilal to
the quarters of Mahound.
Next, Gibreel dreamed the Grandee's return home:
The town is full of rumours and there's a crowd in front of the house.
After a time the sound of Hind's voice lifted in rage can be clearly
heard. Then at an upper balcony Hind shows herself and demands that
the crowd tear her husband into small pieces. The Grandee appears
beside her; and receives loud, humiliating smacks on both cheeks from
his loving wife. Hind has discovered that in spite of all her efforts she
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has not been able to prevent the Grandee from surrendering the city to
Mahound.
Moreover: Abu Simbel has embraced the faith.
Simbel in his defeat has lost much of his recent wispiness. He permits
Hind to strike him, and then speaks calmly to the crowd. He says:
Mahound has promised that anyone within the Grandee's walls will be
spared. "So come in, all of you, and bring your families, too."
Hind speaks for the angry crowd. "You old fool. How many citizens can
fit inside a single house, even this one? You've done a deal to save your
own neck. Let them rip you up and feed you to the ants."
Still the Grandee is mild. "Mahound also promises that all who are
found at home, behind closed doors, will be safe. If you will not come
into my home then go to your own; and wait."
A third time his wife attempts to turn the crowd against him; this is a
balcony scene of hatred instead of love. There can be no compromise
with Mahound, she shouts, he is not to be trusted, the people must
repudiate Abu Simbel and prepare to fight to the last man, the last
woman. She herself is prepared to fight beside them and die for the
freedom of Jahilia. "Will you merely lie down before this false prophet,
this Dajjal? Can honour be expected of a man who is preparing to storm
the city of his birth? Can compromise be hoped for from the
uncompromising, pity from the pitiless? We are the mighty of Jahilia,
and our goddesses, glorious in battle, will prevail." She commands
them to fight in the name of Al-Lat. But the people begin to leave.
Husband and wife stand on their balcony, and the people see them
plain. For so long the city has used these two as its mirrors; and
because, of late, Jahilians have preferred Hind's images to the greying
Grandee, they are suffering, now, from profound shock. A people that
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has remained convinced of its greatness and invulnerability, that has
chosen to believe such a myth in the face of all the evidence, is a people
in the grip of a kind of sleep, or madness. Now the Grandee has
awakened them from that sleep; they stand disoriented, rubbing their
eyes, unable to believe at first -- if we are so mighty, how then have we
fallen so fast, so utterly? -- and then belief comes, and shows them how
their confidence has been built on clouds, on the passion of Hind's
proclamations and on very little else. They abandon her, and with her,
hope. Plunging into despair, the people of Jahilia go home to lock their
doors.
She screams at them, pleads, loosens her hair. "Come to the House of
the Black Stone! Come and make sacrifice to Lat!" But they have gone.
And Hind and the Grandee are alone on their balcony, while
throughout Jahilia a great silence falls, a great stillness begins, and
Hind leans against the wall of her palace and closes her eyes.
It is the end. The Grandee murmurs softly: "Not many of us have as
much reason to be scared of Mahound as you. If you eat a man's
favourite uncle's innards, raw, without so much as salt or garlic, don't
be surprised if he treats you, in turn, like meat." Then he leaves her,
and goes down into the streets from which even the dogs have vanished,
to unlock the city gates.
Gibreel dreamed a temple:
By the open gates of Jahilia stood the temple of Uzza. And Mahound
spake unto Khalid who had been a carrier of water before, and now bore
greater weights: "Go thou and cleanse that place." So Khalid with a
force of men descended upon the temple, for Mahound was loth to
enter the city while such abominations stood at its gates.
When the guardian of the temple, who was of the tribe of Shark, saw
the approach of Khalid with a great host of warriors, he took up his
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sword and went to the idol of the goddess. After making his final
prayers he hung his sword about her neck, saying, "If thou be truly a
goddess, Uzza, defend thyself and thy servant against the coming of
Mahound." Then Khalid entered the temple, and when the goddess did
not move the guardian said, "Now verily do I know that the God of
Mahound is the true God, and this stone but a stone." Then Khalid
broke the temple and the idol and returned to Mahound in his tent.
And the Prophet asked: "What didst thou see?" Khalid spread his arms.
"Nothing," said he. "Then thou hast not destroyed her," the Prophet
cried. "Go again, and complete thy work." So Khalid returned to the
fallen temple, and there an enormous woman, all black but for her long
scarlet tongue, came running at him, naked from head to foot, her
black hair flowing to her ankles from her head. Nearing him, she
halted, and recited in her terrible voice of sulphur and hellfire: "Have
you heard of Lat, and Manat, and Uzza, the Third, the Other? They are
the Exalted Birds . . ." But Khalid interrupted her, saying, "Uzza, those
are the Devil's verses, and you the Devil's daughter, a creature not to be
worshipped, but denied." So he drew his sword and cut her down.
And he returned to Mahound in his tent and said what he had seen. And
the Prophet said, "Now may we come into Jahilia," and they arose, and
came into the city, and possessed it in the Name of the Most High, the
Destroyer of Men.
How many idols in the House of the Black Stone? Don't forget: three
hundred and sixty. Sun-god, eagle, rainbow. The colossus of Hubal.
Three hundred and sixty wait for Mahound, knowing they are not to be
spared. And are not: but let's not waste time there. Statues fall; stone
breaks; what's to be done is done.
Mahound, after the cleansing of the House, sets up his tent or the old
fairground. The people crowd around the tent, embracing the victorious
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faith. The Submission of Jahilia: this, too, is inevitable, and need not be
lingered over.
While Jahilians bow before him, mumbling their life-saving sentences,
_there is no God but Al-Lah_, Mahound whispers to Khalid. Somebody
has not come to kneel before him; somebody long awaited. "Salman,"
the Prophet wishes to know. "Has he been found?"
"Not yet. He's hiding; but it won't be long."
There is a distraction. A veiled woman kneels before him, kissing his
feet. "You must stop," he enjoins. "It is only God who must be
worshipped." But what foot-kissery this is! Toe by toe, joint by joint,
the woman licks, kisses, sucks. And Mahound, unnerved, repeats: "Stop.
This is incorrect." Now, however, the woman is attending to the soles of
his feet, cupping her hands beneath his heel ... he kicks out, in his
confusion, and catches her in the throat. She falls, coughs, then
prostrates herself before him, and says firmly: "There is no God but Al-
Lah, and Mahound is his Prophet." Mahound calms himself, apologizes,
extends a hand. "No harm will come to you," he assures her. "All who
Submit are spared." But there is a strange confusion in him, and now he
understands why, understands the anger, the bitter irony in her
overwhelming, excessive, sensual adoration of his feet. The woman
throws off her veil: Hind.
"The wife of Abu Simbel," she announces clearly, and a hush falls.
"Hind," Mahound says. "I had not forgotten."
But, after a long instant, he nods. "You have Submitted. And are
welcome in my tents."
The next day, amid the continuing conversions, Salman the Persian is
dragged into the Prophet's presence. Khalid, holding him by the ear,
holding a knife at his throat, brings the immigrant snivelling and
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whimpering to the takht. "I found him, where else, with a whore, who
was screeching at him because he didn't have the money to pay her. He
stinks of alcohol."
"Salman Farsi," the Prophet begins to pronounce the sentence of death,
but the prisoner begins to shriek the qalmah: "La ilaha ilallah! La
ilaha!"
Mahound shakes his head. "Your blasphemy, Salman, can't be forgiven.
Did you think I wouldn't work it out? To set your words against the
Words of God."
Scribe, ditch-digger, condemned man: unable to muster the smallest
scrap of dignity, he blubbers whimpers pleads beats his breast abases
himself repents. Khalid says: "This noise is unbearable, Messenger. Can
I not cut off his head?" At which the noise increases sharply. Salman
swears renewed loyalty, begs some more, and then, with a gleam of
desperate hope, makes an offer. "I can show you where your true
enemies are." This earns him a few seconds. The Prophet inclines his
head. Khalid pulls the kneeling Salman's head back by the hair: "What
enemies?" And Salman says a name. Mahound sinks deep into his
cushions as memory returns.
"Baal," he says, and repeats, twice: "Baal, Baal."
Much to Khalid's disappointment, Salman the Persian is not sentenced
to death. Bilal intercedes for him, and the Prophet, his mind elsewhere,
concedes: yes, yes, let the wretched fellow live. O generosity of
Submission! Hind has been spared; and Salman; and in all of Jahilia not
a door has been smashed down, not an old foe dragged out to have his
gizzard slit like a chicken's in the dust. This is Mahound's answer to
the second question: _What happens when you win?_ But one name
haunts Mahound, leaps around him, young, sharp, pointing a long
painted finger, singing verses whose cruel brilliance ensures their
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painfulness. That night, when the supplicants have gone, Khalid asks
Mahound: "You're still thinking about him?" The Messenger nods, but
will not speak. Khalid says: "I made Salman take me to his room, a
hovel, but he isn't there, he's hiding out." Again, the nod, but no
speech. Khalid presses on: "You want me to dig him out? Wouldn't take
much doing. What d"you want done with him? This? This?" Khalid's
finger moves first across his neck and then, with a sharp jab, into his
navel. Mahound loses his temper. "You're a fool," he shouts at the
former water-carrier who is now his military chief of staff. "Can't you
ever work things out without my help?"
Khalid bows and goes. Mahound falls asleep: his old gift, his way of
dealing with bad moods.
But Khalid, Mahound's general, could not find Baal. In spite of door--
to--door searches, proclamations, turnings of stones, the poet proved
impossible to nab. And Mahound's lips remained closed, would not
part to allow his wishes to emerge. Finally, and not without irritation,
Khalid gave up the search. "Just let that bastard show his face, just
once, any time," he vowed in the Prophet's tent of softnesses and
shadows. "I'll slice him so thin you'll be able to see right through each
piece."
It seemed to Khalid that Mahound looked disappointed; but in the low
light of the tent it was impossible to be sure.
Jahilia settled down to its new life: the call to prayers five times a day,
no alcohol, the locking up of wives. Hind herself retired to her quarters
. . . but where was Baal?
Gibreel dreamed a curtain:
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The Curtain, _Hijab_, was the name of the most popular brothel in
Jahilia, an enormous palazzo of date--palms in water--tinkling
courtyards, surrounded by chambers that interlocked in bewildering
mosaic patterns, permeated by labyrinthine corridors which had been
deliberately decorated to look alike, each of them bearing the same
calligraphic invocations to Love, each carpeted with identical rugs, each
with a large stone urn positioned against a wall. None of The Curtain's
clients could ever find their way, without help, either into the rooms of
their favoured courtesan or back again to the street. In this way the
girls were protected from unwanted guests and the business ensured
payment before departure. Large Circassian eunuchs, dressed after the
ludicrous fashion of lamp--genies, escorted the visitors to their goals
and back again, sometimes with the help of balls of string. It was a soft
windowless universe of draperies, ruled over by the ancient and
nameless Madam of the Curtain whose guttural utterances from the
secrecy of a chair shrouded in black veils had acquired, over the years,
something of the oracular. Neither her staff nor her clients were able to
disobey that sibylline voice that was, in a way, the profane antithesis of
Mahound's sacred utterances in a larger, more easily penetrable tent
not so very far away. So that when the raddled poet Baal prostrated
himself before her and begged for help, her decision to hide him and
save his life as an act of nostalgia for the beautiful, lively and wicked
youth he had once been was accepted without question; and when
Khalid's guards arrived to search the premises the eunuchs led them on
a dizzy journey around that overground catacomb of contradictions and
irreconcilable routes, until the soldiers' heads were spinning, and after
looking inside thirty-nine stone urns and finding nothing but unguents
and pickles they left, cursing heavily, never suspecting that there was a
fortieth corridor down which they had never been taken, a fortieth urn
inside which there hid, like a thief, the quivering, pajama-wetting poet
whom they sought.
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After that the Madam had the eunuchs dye the poet's skin until it was
blue-black, and his hair as well, and dressing him in the pantaloons and
turban of a djinn she ordered him to begin a body-building course,
since his lack of condition would certainly arouse suspicions if he
didn't tone up fast.
Baal's sojourn "behind The Curtain" by no means deprived him of
information about events outside; quite the reverse, in fact, because in
the course of his eunuchly duties he stood guard outside the pleasure-
chambers and heard the customers' gossip. The absolute indiscretion of
their tongues, induced by the gay abandon of the whores' caresses and
by the clients' knowledge that their secrets would be kept, gave the
eavesdropping poet, myopic and hard of hearing as he was, a better
insight into contemporary affairs than he could possibly have gained if
he'd still been free to wander the newly puritanical streets of the town.
The deafness was a problem sometimes; it meant that there were gaps in
his knowledge, because the customers frequently lowered their voices
and whispered; but it also minimized the prurient element in his
listenings--in, since he was unable to hear the murmurings that
accompanied fornication, except, of course, at such moments in which
ecstatic clients or feigning workers raised their voices in cries of real or
synthetic joy.
What Baal learned at The Curtain:
From the disgruntled butcher Ibrahim came the news that in spite of
the new ban on pork the skin-deep converts of Jahilia were flocking to
his back door to buy the forbidden meat in secret, "sales are up," he
murmured while mounting his chosen lady, "black pork prices are high;
but damn it, these new rules have made my work eough. A pig is not an
easy animal to slaughter in secret, without noise," and thereupon he
began some squealing of his own, for reasons, it is to be presumed, of
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pleasure rather than pain. -- And the grocer, Musa, confessed to another
of The Curtain's horizontal staff that the old habits were hard to break,
and when he was sure nobody was listening he still said a prayer or two
to "my lifelong favourite, Manat, and sometimes, what to do, Al-Lat as
well; you can't beat a female goddess, they've got attributes the boys
can't match," after which he, too, fell upon the earthly imitations of
these attributes with a will. So it was that faded, fading Baal learned in
his bitterness that no imperium is absolute, no victory complete. And,
slowly, the criticisms of Mahound began.
Baal had begun to change. The news of the destruction of the great
temple of Al-Lat at Taif, which came to his ears punctuated by the
grunts of the covert pig-sticker Ibrahim, had plunged him into a deep
sadness, because even in the high days of his young cynicism his love of
the goddess had been genuine, perhaps his only genuine emotion, and
her fall revealed to him the hollowness of a life in which the only true
love had been felt for a lump of stone that couldn't fight back. When
the first, sharp edge of grief had been dulled, Baal became convinced
that Al-Lat's fall meant that his own end was not far away. He lost that
strange sense of safety that life at The Curtain had briefly inspired in
him; but the returning knowledge of his impermanence, of certain
discovery followed by equally certain death, did not, interestingly
enough, make him afraid. After a lifetime of dedicated cowardice he
found to his great surprise that the effect of the approach of death
really did enable him to taste the sweetness of life, and he wondered at
the paradox of having his eyes opened to such a truth in that house of
costly lies. And what was the truth? It was that Al-Lat was dead -- had
never lived -- but that didn't make Mahound a prophet. In sum, Baal
had arrived at godlessness. He began, stumblingly, to move beyond the
idea of gods and leaders and rules, and to perceive that his story was so
mixed up with Mahound's that some great resolution was necessary.
That this resolution would in all probability mean his death neither
shocked nor bothered him overmuch; and when Musa the grocer
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grumbled one day about the twelve wives" of the Prophet, _one rule for
him, another for us_, Baal understood the form his final confrontation
with Submission would have to take.
The girls of The Curtain -- it was only by convention that they were
referred to as "girls", as the eldest was a woman well into her fifties,
while the youngest, at fifteen, was more experienced than many fifty-
year-olds -- had grown fond of this shambling Baal, and in point of fact
they enjoyed having a eunuch-whowasn't, so that out of working hours
they would tease him deliciously, flaunting their bodies before him,
placing their breasts against his lips, twining their legs around his
waist, kissing one another passionately just an inch away from his face,
until the ashy writer was hopelessly aroused; whereupon they would
laugh at his stiffness and mock him into blushing, quivering
detumescence; or, very occasionally, and when he had given up all
expectation of such a thing, they would depute one of their number to
satisfy, free of charge, the lust they had awakened. In this way, like a
myopic, blinking, tame bull, the poet passed his days, laying his head in
women's laps, brooding on death and revenge, unable to say whether he
was the most contented or the wretchedest man alive.
It was during one of these playful sessions at the end of a working day,
when the girls were alone with their eunuchs and their wine, that Baal
heard the youngest talking about her client, the grocer, Musa. "That
one!" she said. "He's got a bee in his bonnet about the Prophet's wives.
He's so annoyed about them that he gets excited just by mentioning
their names. He tells me that I personally am the spitting image of
Ayesha herself, and she's His Nibs's favourite, as all are aware. So
there."
The fifty-year-old courtesan butted in. "Listen, those women in that
harem, the men don't talk about anything else these days. No wonder
Mahound secluded them, but it's only made things worse. People
fantasize more about what they can't see."
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Especially in this town, Baal thought; above all in our Jahilia of the
licentious ways, where until Mahound arrived with his rule book the
women dressed brightly, and all the talk was of fucking and money,
money and sex, and not just the talk, either.
He said to the youngest whore: "Why don't you pretend for him?"
"Who?"
"Musa. If Ayesha gives him such a thrill, why not become his private
and personal Ayesha?"
"God," the girl said. "If they heard you say that they'd boil your balls
in butter."
How many wives? Twelve, and one old lady, long dead. How many
whores behind The Curtain? Twelve again; and, secret on her black--
tented throne, the ancient Madam, still defying death. Where there is
no belief, there is no blasphemy. Baal told the Madam of his idea; she
settled matters in her voice of a laryngitic frog. "It is very dangerous,"
she pronounced, "but it could be damn good for business. We will go
carefully; but we will go."
The fifteen-year-old whispered something in the grocer's ear. At once a
light began to shine in his eyes. "Tell me everything," he begged. "Your
childhood, your favourite toys, Solomon"s-horses and the rest, tell me
how you played the tambourine and the Prophet came to watch." She
told him, and then he asked about her deflowering at the age of twelve,
and she told him that, and afterwards he paid double the normal fee,
because "it's been the best time of my life". "We'll have to be careful of
heart conditions," the Madam said to Baa!.
401
When the news got around Jahilia that the whores of The Curtain had
each assumed the identity of one of Mahound's wives, the clandestine
excitement of the city's males was intense; yet, so afraid were they of
discovery, both because they would surely lose their lives if Mahound or
his lieutenants ever found out that they had been involved in such
irreverences, and because of their desire that the new service at The
Curtain be maintained, that the secret was kept from the authorities. In
those days Mahound had returned with his wives to Yathrib, preferring
the cool oasis climate of the north to Jahilia's heat. The city had been
left in the care of General Khalid, from whom things were easily
concealed. For a time Mahound had considered telling Khalid to have
all the brothels of Jahilia closed down, but Abu Simbel had advised him
against so precipitate an act. "Jahilians are new converts," he pointed
out. "Take things slowly." Mahound, most pragmatic of Prophets, had
agreed to a period of transition. So, in the Prophet's absence, the men
of Jahilia flocked to The Curtain, which experienced a three hundred
per cent increase in business. For obvious reasons it was not politic to
form a queue in the street, and so on many days a line of men curled
around the innermost courtyard of the brothel, rotating about its
centrally positioned Fountain of Love much as pilgrims rotated for
other reasons around the ancient Black Stone. All customers of The
Curtain were issued with masks, and Baal, watching the circling masked
figures from a high balcony, was satisfied. There were more ways than
one of refusing to Submit.
In the months that followed, the staff of The Curtain warmed to the
new task. The fifteen-year-old whore "Ayesha" was the most popular
with the paying public, just as her namesake was with Mahound, and
like the Ayesha who was living chastely in her apartment in the harem
quarters of the great mosque at Yathrib, this Jahilian Ayesha began to
be jealous of her preeminent status of Best Beloved. She resented it
when any of her "sisters" seemed to be experiencing an increase in
visitors, or receiving exceptionally generous tips. The oldest, fattest
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whore, who had taken the name of "Sawdah", would tell her visitors
and she had plenty, many of the men of Jahilia seeking her out for her
maternal and also grateful charms -- the story of how Mahound had
married her and Ayesha, on the same day, when Ayesha was just a child.
"In the two of us," she would say, exciting men terribly, "he found the
two halves of his dead first wife: the child, and the mother, too." The
whore "Hafsah" grew as hot-tempered as her namesake, and as the
twelve entered into the spirit of their roles the alliances in the brothel
came to mirror the political cliques at the Yathrib mosque; "Ayesha"
and "Hafsah", for example, engaged in constant, petty rivalries against
the two haughtiest whores, who had always been thought a bit stuck-up
by the others and who had chosen for themselves the most aristocratic
identities, becoming "Umm Salamah the Makhzumite" and, snootiest
of all, "Ramlah", whose namesake, the eleventh wife of Mahound, was
the daughter of Abu Simbel and Hind. And there was a "Zainab bint
Jahsh", and a "Juwairiyah", named after the bride captured on a
military expedition, and a "Rehana the Jew", a "Safia" and a
"Maimunah", and, most erotic of all the whores, who knew tricks she
refused to teach to competitive "Ayesha": the glamorous Egyptian,
"Mary the Copt". Strangest of all was the whore who had taken the
name of "Zainab bint Khuzaimah", knowing that this wife of Mahound
had recently died. The necrophilia of her lovers, who forbade her to
make any movements, was one of the more unsavoury aspects of the
new regime at The Curtain. But business was business, and this, too,
was a need that the courtesans fulfilled.
By the end of the first year the twelve had grown so skilful in their roles
that their previous selves began to fade away. Baal, more myopic and
deafer by the month, saw the shapes of the girls moving past him, their
edges blurred, their images somehow doubled, like shadows
superimposed on shadows. The girls began to entertain new notions
about Baal, too. In that age it was customary for a whore, on entering
her profession, to take the kind of husband who wouldn't give her any
403
trouble -- a mountain, maybe, or a fountain, or a bush -- so that she
could adopt, for form's sake, the title of a married woman. At The
Curtain, the rule was that all the girls married the Love Spout in the
central courtyard, but now a kind of rebellion was brewing, and the day
came when the prostitutes went together to the Madam to announce
that now that they had begun to think of themselves as the wives of the
Prophet they required a better grade of husband than some spurting
stone, which was almost idolatrous, after all; and to say that they had
decided that they would all become the brides of the bumbler, Baal. At
first the Madam tried to talk them out of it, but when she saw that the
girls meant business she conceded the point, and told them to send the
writer in to see her. With many giggles and nudges the twelve
courtesans escorted the shambling poet into the throne room. When
Baal heard the plan his heart began to thump so erratically that he lost
his balance and fell, and "Ayesha" screamed in her fright: "O God,
we're going to be his widows before we even get to be his wives."
But he recovered: his heart regained its composure. And, having no
option, he agreed to the twelvefold proposal. The Madam then married
them all off herself, and in that den of degeneracy, that anti-mosque,
that labyrinth of profanity, Baal became the husband of the wives of the
former businessman, Mahound.
His wives now made plain to him that they expected him to fulfil his
husbandly duties in every particular, and worked out a rota system
under which he could spend a day with each of the girls in turn (at The
Curtain, day and night were inverted, the night being for business and
the day for rest). No sooner had he embarked upon this arduous
programme than they called a meeting at which he was told that he
ought to start behaving a little more like the "real" husband, that is,
Mahound. "Why can't you change your name like the rest of us?" bad-
tempered "Hafsah" demanded, but at this Baal drew the line. "It may
not be much to be proud of," he insisted, "but it's my name. What's
404
more, I don't work with the clients here. There's no business reason for
such a change." "Well, anyhow," the voluptuous "Mary the Copt"
shrugged, "name or no name, we want you to start acting like him."
"I don't know much about," Baal began to protest, but "Ayesha", who
really was the most attractive of them all, or so he had commenced to
feel of late, made a delightful moue. "Honestly, husband," she cajoled
him. "It's not so tough. We just want you to, you know. Be the boss."
It turned out that the whores of The Curtain were the most old-
fashioned and conventional women in Jahilia. Their work, which could
so easily have made them cynical and disillusioned (and they were, of
course, capable of entertaining ferocious notions about their visitors),
had turned them into dreamers instead. Sequestered from the outside
world, they had conceived a fantasy of "ordinary life" in which they
wanted nothing more than to be the obedient, and -- yes -- submissive
helpmeets of a man who was wise, loving and strong. That is to say: the
years of enacting the fantasies of men had finally corrupted their
dreams, so that even in their hearts of hearts they wished to turn
themselves into the oldest male fantasy of all. The added spice of acting
out the home life of the Prophet had got them all into a state of high
excitement, and the bemused Baal discovered what it was to have twelve
women competing for his favours, for the beneficence of his smile, as
they washed his feet and dried them with their hair, as they oiled his
body and danced for him, and in a thousand ways enacted the dream--
marriage they had never really thought they would have.
It was irresistible. He began to find the confidence to order them about,
to adjudicate between them, to punish them when he was angry. Once
when their quarrelling irritated him he forswore them all for a month.
When he went to see "Ayesha" after twenty-nine nights she teased him
for not having been able to stay away. "That month was only twenty-
nine days long," he replied. Once he was caught with "Mary the Copt"
by "Hafsah", in "Hafsah's" quarters and on "Ayesha's" day. He begged
405
"Hafsah" not to tell "Ayesha", with whom he had fallen in love; but she
told her anyway and Baal had to stay away from "Mary" of the fair skin
and curly hair for quite a time after that. In short, he had fallen prey to
the seductions of becoming the secret, profane mirror of Mahound; and
he had begun, once again, to write.
The poetry that came was the sweetest he had ever written. Sometimes
when he was with Ayesha he felt a slowness come over him, a heaviness,
and he had to lie down. "It's strange," he told her. "It is as if I see
myself standing beside myself. And I can make him, the standing one,
speak; then I get up and write down his verses." These artistic
slownesses of Baal were much admired by his wives. Once, tired, he
dozed off in an armchair in the chambers of "Umm Salamah the
Makhzumite". When he woke, hours later, his body ached, his neck and
shoulders were full of knots, and he berated Umm Salamah: "Why
didn't you wake me?" She answered: "I was afraid to, in case the verses
were coming to you." He shook his head. "Don't worry about that. The
only woman in whose company the verses come is 'Ayesha', not you."
Two years and a day after Baal began his life at The Curtain, one of
Ayesha's clients recognized him in spite of the dyed skin, pantaloons
and body-building exercises. Baal was stationed outside Ayesha's room
when the client emerged, pointed right at him and shouted: "So this is
where you got to!" Ayesha came running, her eyes blazing with fear. But
Baal said, "It's all right. He won't make any trouble." He invited
Salman the Persian to his own quarters and uncorked a bottle of the
sweet wine made with uncrushed grapes which the Jahilians had begun
to make when they found out that it wasn't forbidden by what they had
started disrespectfully calling the Rule Book.
"I came because I'm finally leaving this infernal city," Salman said,
"and I wanted one moment of pleasure out of it after all the years of
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shit." After Bilal had interceded for him in the name of their old
friendship the immigrant had found work as a letterwriter and all-
purpose scribe, sitting cross--legged by the roadside in the main street
of the financial district. His cynicism and despair had been burnished
by the sun. "People write to tell lies," he said, drinking quickly. "So a
professional liar makes an excellent living. My love letters and business
correspondence became famous as the best in town because of my gift
for inventing beautiful falsehoods that involved only the tiniest
departure from the facts. As a result I have managed to save enough for
my trip home in just two years. Home! The old country! I'm off
tomorrow, and not a minute too soon."
As the bottle emptied Salman began once again to talk, as Baa! had
known he would, about the source of all his ills, the Messenger and his
message. He told Baal about a quarrel between Mahound and Ayesha,
recounting the rumour as if it were incontrovertible fact. "That girl
couldn't stomach it that her husband wanted so many other women,"
he said. "He talked about necessity, political alliances and so on, but
she wasn't fooled. Who can blame her? Finally he went into -- what else?
-- one of his trances, and out he came with a message from the
archangel. Gibreel had recited verses giving him full divine support.
God's own permission to luck as many women as he liked. So there:
what could poor Ayesha say against the verses of God? You know what
she did say? This: 'Your God certainly jumps to it when you need him to
fix things up for you.' Well! If it hadn't been Ayesha, who knows what
he'd have done, but none of the others would have dared in the first
place." Baal let him run on without interruption. The sexual aspects of
Submission exercised the Persian a good deal: "Unhealthy," he
pronounced. "All this segregation. No good will come of it."
At length Baal did start arguing, and Salman was astonished to hear the
poet taking Mahound's side: "You can see his point of view," Baal
reasoned. "If families offer him brides and he refuses he creates
407
enemies, -- and besides, he's a special man and one can see the
argument for special dispensations, -- and as for locking them up, well,
what a dishonour it would be if anything bad happened to one of them!
Listen, if you lived in here, you wouldn't think a little less sexual
freedom was such a bad thing, -- for the common people, I mean."
"Your brain's gone," Salman said flatly. "You've been out of the sun
too long. Or maybe that costume makes you talk like a clown."
Baal was pretty tipsy by this time, and began some hot retort, but
Salman raised an unsteady hand. "Don't want to fight," he said.
"Lemme tell you instead. Hottest story in town. Whoowhoo! And it's
relevant to whatch, whatchyou say."
Salman's story: Ayesha and the Prophet had gone on an expedition to a
far-flung village, and on the way back to Yathrib their party had
camped in the dunes for the night. Camp was struck in the dark before
the dawn. At the last moment Ayesha was obliged by a call of nature to
rush out of sight into a hollow. While she was away her litter--bearers
picked up her palanquin and marched off. She was a light woman, and,
failing to notice much difference in the weight of that heavy palanquin,
they assumed she was inside. Ayesha returned after relieving herself to
find herself alone, and who knows what might have befallen her if a
young man, a certain Safwan, had not chanced to pass by on his camel .
. . Safwan brought Ayesha back to Yathrib safe and sound; at which
point tongues began to wag, not least in the harem, where
opportunities to weaken Ayesha's power were eagerly seized by her
opponents. The two young people had been alone in the desert for many
hours, and it was hinted, more and more loudly, that Safwan was a
dashingly handsome fellow, and the Prophet was much older than the
young woman, after all, and might she not therefore have been attracted
to someone closer to her own age? "Quite a scandal," Salman
commented, happily.
408
"What will Mahound do?" Baal wanted to know.
"O, he's done it," Salman replied. "Same as ever. He saw his pet, the
archangel, and then informed one and all that Gibreel had exonerated
Ayesha." Salman spread his arms in worldly resignation. "And this time,
mister, the lady didn't complain about the convenience of the verses."
Salman the Persian left the next morning with a northbound camel-
train. When he left Baal at The Curtain, he embraced the poet, kissed
him on both cheeks and said: "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's better to
keep out of the daylight. I hope it lasts." Baa! replied: "And I hope you
find home, and that there is something there to love." Salman's face
went blank. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and left.
"Ayesha" came to Baal's room for reassurance. "He won't spill out the
secret when he's drunk?" she asked, caressing Baal's hair. "He gets
through a lot of wine."
Baal said: "Nothing is ever going to be the same again." Salman's visit
had wakened him from the dream into which he had slowly subsided
during his years at The Curtain, and he couldn't go back to sleep.
"Of course it will," Ayesha urged. "It will. You'll see."
Baal shook his head and made the only prophetic remark of his life.
"Something big is going to happen," he foretold. "A man can't hide
behind skirts forever."
The next day Mahound returned to Jahilia and soldiers came to inform
the Madam of The Curtain that the period of transition was at an end.
The brothels were to be closed, with immediate effect. Enough was
enough. From behind her drapes, the Madam requested that the
soldiers withdraw for an hour in the name of propriety to enable the
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guests to leave, and such was the inexperience of the officer in charge of
the vice-squad that he agreed. The Madam sent her eunuchs to inform
the girls and escort the clients out by a back door. "Please apologize to
them for the interruption," she ordered the eunuchs, "and say that in
the circumstances, no charge will be made."
They were her last words. When the alarmed girls, all talking at once,
crowded into the throne room to see if the worst were really true, she
made no answer to their terrified questions, are we out of work, how do
we eat, will we go to jail, what's to become of us, -- until "Ayesha"
screwed up her courage and did what none of them had ever dared
attempt. When she threw back the black hangings they saw a dead
woman who might have been fifty or a hundred and twenty-five years
old, no more than three feet tall, looking like a big doll, curled up in a
cushionladen wickerwork chair, clutching the empty poison-bottle in
her fist.
"Now that you've started," Baal said, coming into the room, "you may
as well take all the curtains down. No point trying to keep the sun out
any more."
The young vice-squad officer, Umar, allowed himself to display a rather
petulant bad temper when he found out about the suicide of the
brothel-keeper. "Well, if we can't hang the boss, we'll just have to make
do with the workers," he shouted, and ordered his men to place the
"tarts" under close arrest, a task the men performed with zeal. The
women made a noise and kicked out at their captors, but the eunuchs
stood and watched without twitching a muscle, because Umar had said
to them: "They want the cunts to be put on trial, but I've no
instructions about you. So if you don't want to lose your heads as well
as your balls, keep out of this." Eunuchs failed to defend the women of
The Curtain while soldiers wrestled them to the ground; and among the
410
eunuchs was Baa!, of the dyed skin and poetry. Just before the youngest
"cunt" or "slit" was gagged, she yelled: "Husband, for God's sake, help
us, if you are a man." The vice-squad captain was amused. "Which of
you is her husband?" he asked, staring carefully into each turban-
topped face. "Come on, own up. What's it like to watch the world with
your wife?"
Baal fixed his gaze on infinity to avoid "Ayesha's" glares as well as
Umar's narrowed eyes. The officer stopped in front of him. "Is it you?"
"Sir, you understand, it's just a term," Baal lied. "They like to joke, the
girls. They call us their husbands because we, we. .
Without warning, Umar grabbed him by the genitals and squeezed.
"Because you can't be," he said. "Husbands, eh. Not bad."
When the pain subsided, Baal saw that the women had gone. Umar gave
the eunuchs a word of advice on his way out. "Get lost," he suggested.
"Tomorrow I may have orders about you. Not many people get lucky
two days running."
When the girls of The Curtain had been taken away, the eunuchs sat
down and wept uncontrollably by the Fountain of Love. But Baal, full
of shame, did not cry.
Gibreel dreamed the death of Baal:
The twelve whores realized, soon after their arrest, that they had grown
so accustomed to their new names that they couldn't remember the old
ones. They "were too frightened to give their jailers their assumed
titles,, and as a result were unable to give any names at all. After a good
deal of shouting and a good many threats the jailers gave in and
registered them by numbers, as Curtain No. 1, Curtain No. 2 and so on.
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Their former clients, terrified of the consequences of letting slip the
secret of what the whores had been up to, also remained silent, so that
it is possible that nobody would have found out if the poet Baal had
not started pasting his verses to the walls of the city jail.
Two days after the arrests, the jail was bursting with prostitutes and
pimps, whose numbers had increased considerably during the two years
in which Submission had introduced sexual segregation to Jahilia. It
transpired that many Jahilian men were prepared to countenance the
jeers of the town riff-raff, to say nothing of possible prosecution under
the new immorality laws, in order to stand below the windows of the
jail and serenade those painted ladies whom they had grown to love.
The women inside were entirely unimpressed by these devotions, and
gave no encouragement whatsoever to the suitors at their barred gates.
On the third day, however, there appeared among these lovelorn fools a
peculiarly woebegone fellow in turban and pantaloons, with dark skin
that was beginning to look decidedly blotchy. Many passers-by
sniggered at the look of him, but when he began to sing his verses the
sniggering stopped at once. Jahilians had always been connoisseurs of
the art of poetry, and the beauty of the odes being sung by the peculiar
gent stopped them in their tracks. Baal sang his love poems, and the
ache in them silenced the other versifiers, who allowed Baal to speak for
them all. At the windows of the jail, it was possible to see for the first
time the faces of the sequestered whores, who had been drawn there by
the magic of the lines. When he finished his recital he went forward to
nail his poetry to the wall. The guards at the gates, their eyes running
with tears, made no move to stop him.
Every evening after that, the strange fellow would reappear and recite a
new poem, and each set of verses sounded lovelier than the last. It was
perhaps this surfeit of loveliness which prevented anybody from
noticing, until the twelfth evening, when he completed his twelfth and
final set of verses, each of which were dedicated to a different woman,
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that the names of his twelve "wives" were the same as those of another
group of twelve.
But on the twelfth day it was noticed, and at once the large crowd that
had taken to gathering to hear Baal read changed its mood. Feelings of
outrage replaced those of exaltation, and Baal was surrounded by angry
men demanding to know the reasons for this oblique, this most
byzantine of insults. At this point Baal took off his absurd turban. "I
am Baal," he announced. "I recognize no jurisdiction except that of my
Muse; or, to be exact, my dozen Muses."
Guards seized him.
The General, Khalid, had wanted to have Baa! executed at once, but
Mahound asked that the poet be brought to trial immediately following
the whores. So when Baal's twelve wives, who had divorced stone to
marry him, had been sentenced to death by stoning to punish them for
the immorality of their lives, Baal stood face to face with the Prophet,
mirror facing image, dark facing light. Khalid, sitting at Mahound's
right hand, offered Baa! a last chance to explain his vile deeds. The poet
told the story of his stay at The Curtain, using the simplest language,
concealing nothing, not even his final cowardice, for which everything
he had done since had been an attempt at reparation. But now an
unusual thing happened. The crowd packed into that tent of judgment,
knowing that this was after all the famous satirist Baa!, in his day the
owner of the sharpest tongue and keenest wit in Jahilia, began (no
matter how hard it tried not to) to laugh. The more honestly and simply
Baal described his marriages to the twelve "wives of the Prophet", the
more uncontrollable became the horrified mirth of the audience. By the
end of his speech the good folk of Jahilia were literally weeping with
laughter, unable to restrain themselves even when soldiers with
bullwhips and scimitars threatened them with instant death.
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"I'm not kidding!" Baal screeched at the crowd, which hooted yelled
slapped its thighs in response. "It's no joke!" Ha ha ha. Until, at last,
silence returned; the Prophet had risen to his feet.
"In the old days you mocked the Recitation," Mahound said in the
hush. "Then, too, these people enjoyed your mockery. Now you return
to dishonour my house, and it seems that once again you succeed in
bringing the worst out of the people."
Baal said, "I've finished. Do what you want."
So he was sentenced to be beheaded, within the hour, and as soldiers
manhandled him out of the tent towards the killing ground, he shouted
over his shoulder: "Whores and writers, Mahound. We are the people
you can't forgive."
Mahound replied, "Writers and whores. I see no difference here."
Once upon a time there was a woman who did not change.
After the treachery of Abu Simbel handed Jahilia to Mahound on a plate
and replaced the idea of the city's greatness with the reality of
Mahound's, Hind sucked toes, recited the La-ilaha, and then retreated
to a high tower of her palace, where news reached her of the destruction
of the Al-Lat temple at Taif, and of all the statues of the goddess that
were known to exist. She locked herself into her tower room with a
collection of ancient books written in scripts which no other human
being injahilia could decipher; and for two years and two months she
remained there, studying her occult texts in secret, asking that a plate
of simple food be left outside her door once a day and that her
chamberpot be emptied at the same time. For two years and two months
she saw no other living being. Then she entered her husband's bedroom
at dawn, dressed in all her finery, with jewels glittering at her wrists,
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ankles, toes, ears and throat. "Wake up," she commanded, flinging back
his curtains. "It's a day for celebrations." He saw that she hadn't aged
by so much as a day since he last saw her; if anything, she looked
younger than ever, which gave credence to the rumours which suggested
that her witchcraft had persuaded time to run backwards for her within
the confines of her tower room. "What have we got to celebrate?" the
former Grandee of Jahilia asked, coughing up his usual morning blood.
Hind replied: "I may not be able to reverse the flow of history, but
revenge, at least, is sweet."
Within an hour the news arrived that the Prophet, Mahound, had fallen
into a fatal sickness, that he lay in Ayesha's bed with his head
thumping as if it had been filled up with demons. Hind continued to
make calm preparations for a banquet, sending servants to every corner
of the city to invite guests. But of course nobody would come to a party
on that day. In the evening Hind sat alone in the great hall of her home,
amid the golden plates and crystal glasses of her revenge, eating a
simple plate of couscous while surrounded by glistening, steaming,
aromatic dishes of every imaginable type. Abu Simbel had refused to
join her, calling her eating an obscenity. "You ate his uncle's heart,"
Simbel cried, "and now you would eat his." She laughed in his face.
When the servants began to weep she dismissed them, too, and sat in
solitary rejoicing while candles sent strange shadows across her
absolute, uncompromising face.
Gibreel dreamed the death of Mahound:
For when the head of the Messenger began to ache as never before, he
knew the time had come when he would be offered the Choice:
Since no Prophet may die before he has been shown Paradise, and
afterward asked to choose between this world and the next:
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So that as he lay with his head in his beloved Ayesha's lap, he closed his
eyes, and life seemed to depart from him; but after a time he returned:
And he said unto Ayesha, "I have been offered and made my Choice, and
I have chosen the kingdom of God."
Then she wept, knowing that he was speaking of his death; whereupon
his eyes moved past her, and seemed to fix upon another figure in the
room, even though when she, Ayesha, turned to look she saw only a
lamp there, burning upon its stand:
"Who's there?" he called out. "Is it Thou, Azraeel?"
But Ayesha heard a terrible, sweet voice, that was a woman's, make
reply: "No, Messenger of Al--Lah, it is not Azraeel."
And the lamp blew out; and in the darkness Mahound asked: "Is this
sickness then thy doing, O Al— Lat?"
And she said: "It is my revenge upon you, and I am satisfied. Let them
cut a camel's hamstrings and set it on your grave."
Then she went, and the lamp that had been snuffed out burst once more
into a great and gentle light, and the Messenger murmured, "Still, I
thank Thee, Al--Lat, for this gift."
Not long afterwards he died. Ayesha went out into the next room, where
the other wives and disciples were waiting with heavy hearts, and they
began mightily to lament:
But Ayesha wiped her eyes, and said: "If there be any here who
worshipped the Messenger, let them grieve, for Mahound is dead; but if
there be any here who worship God, then let them rejoice, for He is
surely alive."
It was the end of the dream.
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VII. The Angel Azraeel
1
It all boiled down to love, reflected Saladin Chamcha in his den: love,
the refractory bird of Meilhac and Halevy's libretto for _Carmen_ -- one
of the prize specimens, this, in the Allegorical Aviary he'd assembled in
lighter days, and which included among its winged metaphors the Sweet
(of youth), the Yellow (more lucky than me), Khayyam--FitzGerald's
adjectiveless Bird of Time (which has but a little way to fly, and lo! is
on the Wing), and the Obscene; this last from a letter written by Henry
James, Sr, to his sons. . . "Every man who has reached even his
intellectual teens begins to suspect that life is no farce; that it is not
genteel comedy even; that it flowers and fructifies on the contrary out
of the profoundest tragic depths of the essential dearth in which its
subject's roots are plunged. The natural inheritance of everyone who is
capable of spiritual life is an unsubdued forest where the wolf howls
and the obscene bird of night chatters." Take _that_, kids. -- And in a
separate but proximate glass display--case of the younger, happier
Chamcha's fancy there fluttered a captive from a piece of hit-parade
bubblegum music, the Bright Elusive Butterfly, which shared
_l"amour_ with the _oiseau rebelle_.
Love, a zone in which nobody desirous of compiling a human (as
opposed to robotic, Skinnerian-android) body of experience could
afford to shut down operations, did you down, no question about it,
and very probably did you in as well. It even warned you in advance.
"Love is an infant of Bohemia," sings Carmen, herself the very Idea of
the Beloved, its perfect pattern, eternal and divine, "and if you love me,
look out for you." You couldn't ask for fairer. For his own part, Saladin
417
in his time had loved widely, and was now (he had come to believe)
suffering Love's revenges upon the foolish lover. Of the things of the
mind, he had most loved the protean, inexhaustible culture of the
Englishspeaking peoples; had said, when courting Pamela, that
_Othello_, "just that one play", was worth the total output of any other
dramatist in any other language, and though he was conscious of
hyperbole, he didn't think the exaggeration very great. (Pamela, of
course, made incessant efforts to betray her class and race, and so,
predictably, professed herself horrified, bracketing Othello with
Shylock and beating the racist Shakespeare over the head with the brace
of them.) He had been striving, like the Bengali writer, Nirad
Chaudhuri, before him -- though without any of that impish, colonial
intelligence's urge to be seen as an enfant terrible -- to be worthy of the
challenge represented by the phrase _Civis Britannicus sum_. Empire
was no more, but still he knew "all that was good and living within
him" to have been "made, shaped and quickened" by his encounter with
this islet of sensibility, surrounded by the cool sense of the sea. -- Of
material things, he had given his love to this city, London, preferring it
to the city of his birth or to any other; had been creeping up on it,
stealthily, with mounting excitement, freezing into a statue when it
looked in his direction, dreaming of being the one to possess it and so,
in a sense, become it, as when in the game of grandmother's footsteps
the child who touches the one who's _it_ ("on it", today's young
Londoners would say) takes over that cherished identity; as, also, in the
myth of the Golden Bough. London, its conglomerate nature mirroring
his own, its reticence also his; its gargoyles, the ghostly footfalls in its
streets of Roman feet, the honks of its departing migrant geese. Its
hospitality -- yes! -- in spite of immigration laws, and his own recent
experience, he still insisted on the truth of that: an imperfect welcome,
true, one capable of bigotry, but a real thing, nonetheless, as was
attested by the existence in a South London borough of a pub in which
no language but Ukrainian could be heard, and by the annual reunion,
in Wembley, a stone's throw from the great stadium surrounded by
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imperial echoes -- Empire Way, the Empire Pool -- of more than a
hundred delegates, all tracing their ancestry back to a single, small
Goan village. -- "We Londoners can be proud of our hospitality," he'd
told Pamela, and she, giggling helplessly, took him to see the Buster
Keaton movie of that name, in which the comedian, arriving at the end
of an absurd railway line, gets a murderous reception. In those days
they had enjoyed such oppositions, and after hot disputes had ended up
in bed.. . He returned his wandering thoughts to the subject of the
metropolis. Its -- he repeated stubbornly to himself-- long history as a
refuge, a role it maintained in spite of the recalcitrant ingratitude of
the refugees' children; and without any of the selfcongratulatory
huddled-masses rhetoric of the "nation of immigrants" across the
ocean, itself far from perfectly open--armed. Would the United States,
with its are-you-now-have-you-ever-beens, have permitted Ho Chi Minh
to cook in its hotel kitchens? What would its McCarran--Walter Act
have to say about a latter-- day Karl Marx, standing bushy--bearded at
its gates, waiting to cross its yellow lines? O Proper London! Dull
would he truly be of soul who did not prefer its faded splendours, its
new hesitancies, to the hot certainties of that transatlantic New Rome
with its Nazified architectural gigantism, which employed the
oppressions of size to make its human occupants feel like worms . . .
London, in spite of an increase in excrescences such as the NatWest
Tower -- a corporate logo extruded into the third dimension --
preserved the human scale. _Viva! Zindabad!_
Pamela had always taken a caustic view of such rhapsodies. "These are
museum-values," she used to tell him. "Sanctified, hanging in golden
frames on honorific walls." She had never had any time for what
endured. Change everything! Rip it up! He said: "If you succeed you
will make it impossible for anybody like you, in one or two generations'
time, to come along." She celebrated this vision of her own
obsolescence. If she ended up like the dodo -- a stuffed relic, _Class
Traitor, 1980s_ -- that would, she said, certainly suggest an
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improvement in the world. He begged to differ, but by this time they
had begun to embrace: which surely was an improvement, so he
conceded the other point.
(One year, the government had introduced admission charges at
museums, and groups of angry art-lovers picketed the temples of
culture. When he saw this, Chamcha had wanted to get up a placard of
his own and stage a one-man counter-protest. Didn't these people know
what the stuff inside was _worth?_ There they were, cheerfully rotting
their lungs with cigarettes worth more per packet than the charges they
were protesting against; what they were demonstrating to the world was
the low value they placed upon their cultural heritage. . . Pamela put
her foot down. "Don't you dare," she said. She held the then--correct
view: that the museums were _too valuable_ to charge for. So: "Don't
you dare," and to his surprise he found he did not. He had not meant
what he would have seemed to mean. He had meant that he would have
given, maybe, in the right circumstances, his _life_ for what was in
those museums. So he could not take seriously these objections to a
charge of a few pence. He quite saw, however, that this was an obscure
and ill-defended position.)
--_And of human beings, Pamela, I loved you_. --
Culture, city, wife; and a fourth and final love, of which he had spoken
to nobody: the love of a dream. In the old days the dream had recurred
about once a month; a simple dream, set in a city park, along an avenue
of mature elms, whose overarching branches turned the avenue into a
green tunnel into which the sky and the sunlight were dripping, here
and there, through the perfect imperfections in the canopy of leaves. In
this sylvan secrecy, Saladin saw himself, accompanied by a small boy of
about five, whom he was teaching to ride a bicycle. The boy, wobbling
alarmingly at first, made heroic efforts to gain and maintain his
balance, with the ferocity of one who wishes his father to be proud of
him. The dream-Chamcha ran along behind his imagined son, holding
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the bike upright by gripping the parcelrack over the rear wheel. Then he
released it, and the boy (not knowing himself to be unsupported) kept
going: balance came like a gift of flight, and the two of them were
gliding down the avenue, Chamcha running, the boy pedalling harder
and harder. "You did it!" Saladin rejoiced, and the equally elated child
shouted back: "Look at me! See how quickly I learned! Aren't you
pleased with me? Aren't you pleased?" It was a dream to weep at; for
when he awoke, there was no bicycle and no child.
"What will you do now?" Mishal had asked him amid the wreckage of
the Hot Wax nightclub, and he'd answered, too lightly: "Me? I think I'll
come back to life." Easier said than done; it was life, after all, that had
rewarded his love of a dream--child with childlessness; his love of a
woman, with her estrangement from him and her insemination by his
old college friend; his love of a city, by hurling him down towards it
from Himalayan heights; and his love of a civilization, by having him
bedevilled, humiliated, broken upon its wheel. Not quite broken, he
reminded himself; he was whole again, and there was, too, the example
of Niccolo Machiavelli to consider (a wronged man, his name, like that
of Muhammad-Mahon-Mahound, a synonym for evil; whereas in fact his
staunch republicanism had earned him the rack, upon which he
survived, was it three turns of the wheel? -- enough, at any rate, to make
most men confess to raping their grandmothers, or anything else, just
to make the pain go away; -- yet he had confessed to nothing, having
committed no crimes while serving the Florentine republic, that all--
too-brief interruption in the power of the Medici family); if Niccolo
could survive such tribulation and live to write that perhaps
embittered, perhaps sardonic parody of the sycophantic mirror--of--
princes literature then so much in vogue, _Il Principe_, following it
with the magisterial _Discorsi_, then he, Chamcha, need certainly not
permit himself the luxury of defeat. Resurrection it was, then; roll back
that boulder from the cave's dark mouth, and to hell with the lega!
problems.
421
Mishal, Hanif Johnson and Pinkwalla -- in whose eyes Chamcha's
metamorphoses had made the actor a hero, through whom the magic of
special-effects fantasy-movies (_Labyrinth_, _Legend_, _Howard the
Duck_) entered the Real -- drove Saladin over to Pamela's place in the
DJ's van; this time, though, he squashed himself into the cab along
with the other three. It was early afternoon; Jumpy would still be at the
sports centre. "Good luck," said Mishal, kissing him, and Pinkwalla
asked if they should wait. "No, thanks," Saladin replied. "When you've
fallen from the sky, been abandoned by your friend, suffered police
brutality, metamorphosed into a goat, lost your work as well as your
wife, learned the power of hatred and regained human shape, what is
there left to do but, as you would no doubt phrase it, demand your
rights?" He waved goodbye. "Good for you," Mishal said, and they had
gone. On the street corner the usual neighbourhood kids, with whom
his relations had never been good, were bouncing a football off a lamp-
post. One of them, an evil-looking piggy-eyed lout of nine or ten,
pointed an imaginary video remote control at Chamcha and yelled:
"Fast forward!" His was a generation that believed in skipping life's
boring, troublesome, unlikable bits, going fast-forward from one
action-packed climax to the next. _Welcome home_, Saladin thought,
and rang the doorbell.
Pamela, when she saw him, actually caught at her throat. "I didn't
think people did that any more," he said. "Not since _Dr.
Strangelove_." Her pregnancy wasn't visible yet; he inquired after it,
and she blushed, but confirmed that it was going well. "So far so good."
She was naturally off balance; the offer of coffee in the kitchen came
several beats too late (she "stuck with" her whisky, drinking rapidly in
spite of the baby); but in point of fact Chamcha felt one down (there
had been a period in which he'd been an avid devotee of Stephen
Potter's amusing little books) throughout this encounter. Pamela
clearly felt that she ought to be the one in the bad position. She was the
one who had wanted to break the marriage, who had denied him at least
422
thrice; but he was as fumbling and abashed as she, so that they seemed
to compete for the right to occupy the doghouse. The reason for
Chamcha's discomfiture -- and he had not, let's recall, arrived in this
awkward spirit, but in feisty, pugnacious mood -- was that he had
realized, on seeing Pamela, with her too--bright brightness, her face like
a saintly mask behind which who knows what worms feasted on rotting
meat (he was alarmed by the hostile violence of the images arising from
his unconscious), her shaven head under its absurd turban, her whisky
breath, and the hard thing that had entered the little lines around her
mouth, that he had quite simply fallen out of love, and would not want
her back even should she want (which was improbable but not
inconceivable) to return. The instant he became aware of this he
commenced for some reason to feel guilty, and, as a result, at a
conversational disadvantage. The white-haired dog was growling at him,
too. He recalled that he'd never really cared for pets.
"I suppose," she addressed her glass, sitting at the old pine table in the
spacious kitchen, "that what I did was unforgivable, huh?"
That little Americanizing _huh_ was new: another of her infinite series
of blows against her breeding? Or had she caught it from Jumpy, or
some hip little acquaintance of his, like a disease? (The snarling
violence again: down with it. Now that he no longer wanted her, it was
entirely inappropriate to the situation.) "I don't think I can say what
I'm capable of forgiving," he replied. "That particular response seems
to be out of my control; it either operates or it doesn't and I find out in
due course. So let's say, for the moment, that the jury's out." She
didn't like that, she wanted him to defuse the situation so that they
could enjoy their blasted coffee. Pamela had always made vile coffee:
still, that wasn't his problem now. "I'm moving back in," he said. "It's
a big house and there's plenty of room. I'll take the den, and the rooms
on the floor below, including the spare bathroom, so I'll be quite
independent. I propose to use the kitchen very sparingly. I'm assuming
423
chat, as my body was never found, I'm still officially missingpresumed-
dead, that you haven't gone to court to have me wiped off the slate. In
which case it shouldn't take too long to resuscitate me, once I alert
Bentine, Milligan and Sellers." (Respectively, their lawyer, their
accountant and Chamcha's agent.) Pamela listened dumbly, her posture
informing him that she wouldn't be offering any counter-arguments,
that whatever he wanted was okay: making amends with body language.
"After that," he concluded, "we sell up and you get your divorce." He
swept out, making an exit before he got the shakes, and made it to his
den just before they hit him. Pamela, downstairs, would be weeping; he
had never found crying easy, but he was a champion shaker. And now
there was his heart, too: boom badoom doodoodoom.
_To be born again, first you have to die_.
Alone, he all at once remembered that he and Pamela had once
disagreed, as they disagreed on everything, on a short--story they'd both
read, whose theme was precisely the nature of the unforgivable. Title
and author eluded him, but the story came back vividly. A man and a
woman had been intimate friends (never lovers) for all their adult lives.
On his twenty--first birthday (they were both poor at the time) she had
given him, as a joke, the most horrible, cheap glass vase she could find,
its colours a garish parody of Venetian gaiety. Twenty years later, when
they were both successful and greying, she visited his home and
quarrelled with him over his treatment of a mutual friend. In the course
of the quarrel her eye fell upon the old vase, which he still kept in pride
of place on his sitting-room mantelpiece, and, without pausing in her
tirade, she swept it to the floor, smashing it beyond hope of repair. He
never spoke to her again; when she died, half a century later, he refused
to visit her deathbed or attend her funeral, even though messengers
were sent to tell him that these were her dearest wishes. "Tell her," he
said to the emissaries, "that she never knew how much I valued what
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she broke." The emissaries argued, pleaded, raged. If she had not known
how much meaning he had invested in the trifle, how could she in all
fairness be blamed? And had she not made countless attempts, over the
years, to apologize and atone? And she was dying, for heaven's sake;
could not this ancient, childish rift be healed at the last? They had lost
a lifetime's friendship; could they not even say goodbye? "No," said the
unforgiving man. -- "Really because of the vase? Or are you concealing
some other, darker matter?" -- "It was the vase," he answered, "the vase,
and nothing but." Pamela thought the man petty and cruel, but
Chamcha had even then appreciated the curious privacy, the
inexplicable inwardness of the issue. "Nobody can judge an internal
injury," he had said, "by the size of the superficial wound, of the hole."
_Sunt lacrimae rerum_, as the ex-teacher Sufyan would have said, and
Saladin had ample opportunity in the next many days to contemplate
the tears in things. He remained at first virtually immobile in his den,
allowing it to grow back around him at its own pace, waiting for it to
regain something of the solid comforting quality of its old self, as it
had been before the altering of the universe. He watched a good deal of
television with half an eye, channel-hopping compulsively, for he was a
member of the remote-control culture of the present as much as the
piggy boy on the street corner; he, too, could comprehend, or at least
enter the illusion of comprehending, the composite video monster his
button-pushing brought into being ... what a leveller this remote-
control gizmo was, a Procrustean bed for the twentieth century; it
chopped down the heavyweight and stretched out the slight until all the
set's emissions, commercials, murders, game-- shows, the thousand and
one varying joys and terrors of the real and the imagined, acquired an
equal weight; -- and whereas the original Procrustes, citizen of what
could now be termed a "hands-on" culture, had to exercise both brain
and brawn, he, Chamcha, could lounge back in his Parker--Knoll
recliner chair and let his fingers do the chopping. It seemed to him, as
he idled across the channels, that the box was full of freaks: there were
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mutants -- "Mutts" -- on _Dr. Who_, bizarre creatures who appeared to
have been crossbred with different types of industrial machinery: forage
harvesters, grabbers, donkeys, jackhammers, saws, and whose cruel
priest-chieftains were called _Mutilasians_; children's television
appeared to be exclusively populated by humanoid robots and creatures
with metamorphic bodies, while the adult programmes offered a
continual parade of the misshapen human by-products of the newest
notions in modern medicine, and its accomplices, modern disease and
war. A hospital in Guyana had apparently preserved the body of a fully
formed merman, complete with gills and scales. Lycanthropy was on the
increase in the Scottish Highlands. The genetic possibility of centaurs
was being seriously discussed. A sex--change operation was shown. -- He
was reminded of an execrable piece of poetry which Jumpy Joshi had
hesitantly shown him at the Shaandaar B and B. Its name, "I Sing the
Body Eclectic", was fully representative of the whole. -- But the fellow
has a whole body, after all, Saladin thought bitterly. He made Pamela's
baby with no trouble at all: no broken sticks on his damn
chromosomes. . . he caught sight of himself in a rerun of an old _Aliens
Show_ "classic". (In the fast--forward culture, classic status could be
achieved in as little as six months; sometimes even overnight.) The
effect of all this box-watching was to put a severe dent in what
remained of his idea of the normal, average quality of the real; but there
were also countervailing forces at work.
On _Gardeners' World_ he was shown how to achieve something called
a "chimeran graft" (the very same, as chance would have it, that had
been the pride of Otto Cone's garden); and although his inattention
caused him to miss the names of the two trees that had been bred into
one -- Mulberry? Laburnum? Broom? -- the tree itself made him sit up
and take notice. There it palpably was, a chimera with roots, firmly
planted in and growing vigorously out of a piece of English earth: a
tree, he thought, capable of taking the metaphoric place of the one his
father had chopped down in a distant garden in another, incompatible
426
world. If such a tree were possible, then so was he; he, too, could
cohere, send down roots, survive. Amid all the televisual images of
hybrid tragedies -- the uselessness of mermen, the failures of plastic
surgery, the Esperanto-like vacuity of much modern art, the Coca-
Colonization of the planet -- he was given this one gift. It was enough.
He switched off the set.
Gradually, his animosity towards Gibreel lessened. Nor did horns, goat-
hoofs, etc. show any signs of manifesting themselves anew. It seemed a
cure was in progress. In point of fact, with the passage of the days not
only Gibreel, but everything which had befallen Saladin of late that was
irreconcilable with the prosiness of everyday life came to seem somehow
irrelevant, as even the most stubborn of nightmares will once you've
splashed your face, brushed your teeth and had a strong, hot drink. He
began to make journeys into the outside world -- to those professional
advisers, lawyer accountant agent, whom Pamela used to call "the
Goons", and when sitting in the panelled, book- and ledgerlined
stability of those offices in which miracles could plainly never happen
he took to speaking of his "breakdown", -- "the shock of the accident",
-- and so on, explaining his disappearance as though he had never
tumbled from the sky, singing "Rule, Britannia" while Gibreel yowled
an air from the movie _Shree 420_. He made a conscious effort to
resume his old life of delicate sensibilities, taking himself off to
concerts and art galleries and plays, and if his responses were rather
dull; -- if these pursuits singularly failed to send him home in the state
of exaltation which was the return he expected from all high art; -- then
he insisted to himself that the thrill would soon return; he had had "a
bad experience", and needed a little time.
In his den, seated in the Parker-Knoll armchair, surrounded by his
familiar objects -- the china pierrots, the mirror in the shape of a
cartoonist's heart, Eros holding up the globe of an antique lamp -- he
congratulated himself on being the sort of person who had found
427
hatred impossible to sustain for long. Maybe, after all, love was more
durable than hate; even if love changed, some shadow of it, some lasting
shape, persisted. Towards Pamela, for example, he was now sure he felt
nothing but the most altruistic affections. Hatred was perhaps like a
finger-print upon the smooth glass of the sensitive soul; a mere grease-
mark, which disappeared if left alone. Gibreel? Pooh! He was forgotten;
he no longer existed. There; to surrender animosity was to become free.
Saladin's optimism grew, but the red tape surrounding his return to life
proved more obstructive than he expected. The banks were taking their
time about unblocking his accounts; he was obliged to borrow from
Pamela. Nor was work easy to come by. His agent, Charlie Sellers,
explained over the phone: "Clients get funny. They start talking about
zombies, they feel sort of unclean: as "if they were robbing a grave."
Charlie, who still sounded in her early fifties like a disorganized and
somewhat daffy young thing of the best county stock, gave the
impression that she rather sympathized with the clients' point of view.
"Wait it out," she advised. "They'll come round. After all, it isn't as if
you were Dracula, for heaven's sake." Thank you, Charlie.
Yes: his obsessive loathing of Gibreel, his dream of exacting some cruel
and appropriate revenge, -- these were things of the past, aspects of a
reality incompatible with his passionate desire to re--establish ordinary
life. Not even the seditious, deconstructive imagery of television could
deflect him. What he was rejecting was a portrait of himself and Gibreel
as _monstrous_. Monstrous, indeed: the most absurd of ideas. There
were real monsters in the world -- mass--murdering dictators, child
rapists. The Granny Ripper. (Here he was forced to admit that in spite
of his old, high estimate of the Metropolitan Police, the arrest of Uhuru
Simba was just too darned neat.) You only had to open the tabloids any
day of the week to find crazed homosexual Irishmen stuffing babies'
mouths with earth. Pamela, naturally, had been of the view that
"monster" was too -- what? -- _judgmental_ a term for such persons;
428
compassion, she said, required that we see them as casualties of the age.
Compassion, he replied, demanded that we see their victims as the
casualties. "There's nothing to be done with you," she had said in her
most patrician voice. "You actually do think in cheap debating points."
And other monsters, too, no less real than the tabloid fiends: money,
power, sex, death, love. Angels and devils -- who needed them? "Why
demons, when man himself is a demon?" the Nobel Laureate Singer's
"last demon" asked from his attic in Tishevitz. To which Chamcha's
sense of balance, his much-to-be-said-forand-against reflex, wished to
add: "And why angels, when man is angelic too?" (If this wasn't true,
how to explain, for instance, the Leonardo Cartoon? Was Mozart really
Beelzebub in a powdered wig?) -- But, it had to be conceded, and this
was his original point, that the circumstances of the age required no
diabolic explanations.
I'm saying nothing. Don't ask me to clear things up one way or the
other; the time of revelations is long gone. The rules of Creation are
pretty clear: you set things up, you make them thus and so, and then
you let them roll. Where's the pleasure if you're always intervening to
give hints, change the rules, fix the fights? Well, I've been pretty self-
controlled up to this point and I don't plan to spoil things now. Don't
think I haven't wanted to butt in; I have, plenty of times. And once, it's
true, I did. I sat on Alleluia Cone's bed and spoke to the superstar,
Gibreel. _Ooparvala or Neechayvala_, he wanted to know, and I didn't
enlighten him; I certainly don't intend to blab to this confused
Chamcha instead.
I'm leaving now. The man's going to sleep.
429
His reborn, fledgling, still--fallible optimism was hardest to maintain at
night; because at night that otherworld of horns and hoofs was not so
easily denied. There was the matter, too, of the two women who had
started haunting his dreams. The first -- it was hard to admit this, even
to himself-- was none other than the child-woman of the Shaandaar, his
loyal ally in that nightmare time which he was now trying so mightily
to conceal behind banalities and mists, the aficionada of the martial
arts, Hanif Johnson's lover, Mishal Sufyan.
The second -- whom he'd left in Bombay with the knife of his departure
sticking in her heart, and who must still think him dead -- was Zeeny
Vakil.
The jumpiness of Jumpy Joshi when he learned that Saladin Chamcha
had returned, in human form, to reoccupy the upper storeys of the
house in Notting Hill, was frightful to behold, and incensed Pamela
more than she could say. On the first night -- she had decided not to
tell him until they were safely in bed -- he leaped, on hearing the news,
a good three feet clear of the bed and stood on the pale blue carpet,
stark naked and quaking with his thumb stuck in his mouth.
"Come back here and stop being foolish," she commanded, but he
shook his head wildly, and removed his thumb long enough to gibber:
"But if he's _here!_ In this _house!_ Then how can _I_ . . . ?" -- With
which he snatched up his clothes in an untidy bundle, and fled from her
presence; she heard thumps and crashes which suggested that his shoes,
possibly accompanied by himself, had fallen down the stairs. "Good,"
she screamed after him. "Chicken, break your neck."
Some moments later, however, Saladin was visited by the purple-faced
figure of his estranged and naked-headed wife, who spoke thickly
through clamped teeth. "J.J. is standing outside in the street. The damn
430
fool says he can't come in unless you say it's okay with you." She had,
as usual, been drinking. Chamcha, greatly astonished, more or less
blurted out: "What about you, you want him to come in?" Which
Pamela interpreted as his way of rubbing salt in the wound. Turning an
even deeper shade of purple she nodded with humiliated ferocity. _Yes_.
So it was that on his first night home, Saladin Chamcha went outside --
"Hey, hombre! You're really _well!_" Jumpy greeted him in terror,
making as if to slap palms, to conceal his fear -- and persuaded his
wife's lover to share her bed. Then he retreated upstairs, because
Jumpy's mortification now prevented him from entering the house
until Chamcha was safely out of the way.
"What a man! " Jumpy wept at Pamela. "He's a _prince_, a _saint!_"
"If you don't pack it in," Pamela Chamcha warned apoplectically, "I'll
set the fucking dog on you."
Jumpy continued to find Chamcha's presence distracting, envisaging
him (or so it appeared from his behaviour) as a minatory shade that
needed to be constantly placated. When he cooked Pamela a meal (he
had turned out, to her surprise and relief, to be quite a Mughlai chef)
he insisted on asking Chamcha down to join them, and, when Saladin
demurred, took him up a tray, explaining to Pamela that to do
otherwise would be rude, and also provocative. "Look what he permits
under his own roof! He's a _giant_; least we can do is have good
manners." Pamela, with mounting rage, was obliged to put up with a
series of such acts and their accompanying homilies. "I'd never have
believed you were so conventional," she fumed, and Jumpy replied: "It's
just a question of respect."
431
In the name of respect, Jumpy carried Chamcha cups of tea, newspapers
and mail; he never failed, on arriving at the big house, to go upstairs for
a visit of at least twenty minutes, the minimum time commensurate
with his sense of politeness, while Pamela cooled her heels and knocked
back bourbon three floors below. He brought Saladin little presents:
propitiatory offerings of books, old theatre handbills, masks. When
Pamela attempted to put her foot down, he argued against her with an
innocent, but also mulish passion: "We can't behave as if the man's
invisible. He's here, isn't he? Then we must involve him in our lives."
Pamela replied sourly: "Why don't you just ask him to come down and
join us in bed?" To which Jumpy, seriously, replied: "I didn't think
you'd approve."
In spite of his inability to relax and take for granted Chamcha's
residence upstairs, something in Jumpy Joshi was eased by receiving, in
this unusual way, his predecessor's blessings. Able to reconcile the
imperatives of love and friendship, he cheered up a good deal, and
found the idea of fatherhood growing on him. One night he dreamed a
dream that made him weep, the next morning, in delighted
anticipation: a simple dream, in which he was running down an avenue
of overarching trees, helping a small boy to ride a bicycle. "Aren't you
pleased with me?" the boy cried in his elation. "Look: aren't you
pleased?"
Pamela and Jumpy had both become involved in the campaign mounted
to protest against the arrest of Dr. Uhuru Simba for the so-called
Granny Ripper Murders. This, too, Jumpy went upstairs to discuss with
Saladin. "The whole thing's completely trumped-up, based on
circumstantial evidence and insinuations. Hanif reckons he can drive a
truck through the holes in the prosecution case. It's just a
straightforward malicious fit--up; the only question is how far they'll
go. They'll verbal him for sure. Maybe there will even be witnesses
432
saying they saw him do the slicing. Depends how badly they want to get
him. Pretty badly, I'd say; he's been a loud voice around town for some
while." Charncha recommended caution. Recalling Mishal Sufyan's
loathing for Simba, he said: "The fellow has -- has he not? -- a record of
violence towards women . . ." Jumpy turned his palms outward. "In his
personal life," he owned, "the guy's frankly a piece of shit. But that
doesn't mean he disembowels senior citizens; you don't have to be an
angel to be innocent. Unless, of course, you're black." Chamcha let this
pass. "The point is, this isn't personal, it's political," Jumpy
emphasized, adding, as he got up to leave, "Urn, there's a public
meeting about it tomorrow. Pamela and I have to go; please, I mean if
you'd like, if you'd be interested, that is, come along if you want."
"You asked him to go with us?" Pamela was incredulous. She had
started to feel nauseous most of the time, and it did nothing for her
mood. "You actually did that without consulting me?" Jumpy looked
crestfallen. "Doesn't matter, anyhow," she let him off the hook. "Catch
_him_ going to anything like _that_."
In the morning, however, Saladin presented himself in the hall, wearing
a smart brown suit, a camel coat with a silk collar, and a rather natty
brown homburg hat. "Where are you off to?" Pamela, in turban, army-
surplus leather jacket and tracksuit bottoms that revealed the incipient
thickening of her middle, wanted to know. "Bloody Ascot?" "I believe I
was invited to a meeting," Saladin answered in his least combative
manner, and Pamela freaked. "You want to be careful," she warned him.
"The way you look, you'll probably get fucking mugged."
What drew him back into the otherworld, into that undercity whose
existence he had so long denied? -- What, or rather who, forced him by
the simple fact of its (her) existence, to emerge from that cocoon-den in
which he was being -- or so he believed -- restored to his former self,
433
and plunge once more into the perilous (because uncharted) waters of
the world and of himself? "I'll be able to fit in the meeting," Jumpy
Joshi had told Saladin, "before my karate class." -- Where his star pupil
waited: long, rainbow-haired and, Jumpy added, just past her eighteenth
birthday. -- Not knowing that Jumpy, too, was suffering some of the
same illicit longings, Saladin crossed town to be nearer to Mishal
Sufyan.
He had expected the meeting to be small, envisaging a back room
somewhere full of suspicious types looking and talking like clones of
Malcolm X (Chamcha could remember finding funny a TV comic's joke
-- "Then there's the one about the black man who changed his name to
Mr. X and sued the _News of the World_ for libel" -- and provoking one
of the worst quarrels of his marriage), with maybe a few angry-looking
women as well; he had pictured much fist-clenching and righteousness.
What he found was a large hall, the Brickhall Friends Meeting House,
packed wall-to-wall with every conceivable sort of person -- old, wide
women and uniformed schoolchildren, Rastas and restaurant workers,
the staff of the small Chinese supermarket in Plassey Street, soberly
dressed gents as well as wild boys, whites as well as blacks; the mood of
the crowd was far from the kind of evangelical hysteria he'd imagined;
it was quiet, worried, wanting to know what could be done. There was a
young black woman standing near him who gave his attire an amused
once-over; he stared back at her, and she laughed: "Okay, sorry, no
offence." She was wearing a lenticular badge, the sort that changed its
message as you moved. At some angles it read, _Uhuru for the Simba_;
at others, _Freedom for the Lion_. "It's on account of the meaning of
his chosen name," she explained redundantly. "In African." Which
language? Saladin wanted to know. She shrugged, and turned away to
listen to the speakers. It was African: born, by the sound of her, in
Lewisham or Deptford or New Cross, that was all she needed to know . .
434
. Pamela hissed into his ear. "I see you finally found somebody to feel
superior to." She could still read him like a book.
A minute woman in her middle seventies was led up on to the stage at
the far end of the hail by a wiry man who, Chamcha was almost
reassured to observe, really did look like an American Black Power
leader, the young Stokely Carmichael, in fact -- the same intense
spectacles -- and who was acting as a sort of compere. He turned out to
be Dr. Simba's kid brother Walcott Roberts, and the tiny lady was their
mother, Antoinette. "God knows how anything as big as Simba ever
came out of her," Jumpy whispered, and Pamela frowned angrily, out of
a new feeling of solidarity with all pregnant women, past as well as
present. When Antoinette Roberts spoke, however, her voice was big
enough to fill the room on lung-power alone. She wanted to talk about
her son's day in court, at the committal proceedings, and she was quite
a performer. Hers was what Chamcha thought of as an educated voice;
she spoke in the BBC accents of one who learned her English diction
from the World Service, but there was gospel in there, too, and hellfire
sermonizing. "My son filled that dock," she told the silent room. "Lord,
he filled it up. Sylvester -- you will pardon me if I use the name I gave
him, not meaning to belittle the warrior's name he took for himself,
but only out of ingrained habit -- Sylvester, he burst upwards from that
dock like Leviathan from the waves. I want you to know how he spoke:
he spoke loud, and he spoke clear. He spoke looking his adversary in
the eye, and could that prosecutor stare him down? Never in a month of
Sundays. And I want you to know what he said: 'I stand here,' my son
declared, 'because I have chosen to occupy the old and honourable role
of the uppity nigger. I am here because I have not been willing to seem
reasonable. I am here for my ingratitude.' He was a colossus among the
dwarfs. 'Make no mistake,' he said in that court, 'we are here to change
things. I concede at once that we shall ourselves be changed; African,
Caribbean, Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Cypriot, Chinese, we are
other than what we would have been if we had not crossed the oceans, if
435
our mothers and fathers had not crossed the skies in search of work and
dignity and a better life for their children. We have been made again:
but I say that we shall also be the ones to remake this society, to shape
it from the bottom to the top. We shall be the hewers of the dead wood
and the gardeners of the new. It is our turn now.' I wish you to think on
what my son, Sylvester Roberts, Dr. Uhuru Simba, said in the place of
justice. Think on it while we decide what we must do."
Her son Walcott helped her leave the stage amid cheers and chants; she
nodded judiciously in the direction of the noise. Less charismatic
speeches followed. Hanif Johnson, Simba's lawyer, made a series of
suggestions -- the visitors' gallery must be packed, the dispensers
ofjustice must know that they were being watched; the court must be
picketed, and a rota should be organized; there was the need for a
financial appeal. Chamcha murmured to Jumpy: "Nobody mentions his
history of sexual aggression." Jumpy shrugged. "Some of the women
he's attacked are in this room. Mishal, for example, is over there, look,
in the corner by the stage. But this isn't the time or place for that.
Simba's bull craziness is, you could say, a trouble in the family. What
we have here is trouble with the Man." In other circumstances, Saladin
would have had a good deal to say in response to such a statement. --
He would have objected, for one thing, that a man's record of violence
could not be set aside so easily when he was accused of murder. -- Also
that he didn't like the use of such American terms as "the Man" in the
very different British situation, where there was no history of slavery; it
sounded like an attempt to borrow the glamour of other, more
dangerous struggles, a thing he also felt about the organizers' decision
to punctuate the speeches with such meaning—loaded songs as _We
Shall Overcome_, and even, for Pete's sake, _Nkosi Sikelel" iAfrika_. As
if all causes were the same, all histories interchangeable. -- But he said
none of these things, because his head had begun to spin and his senses
to reel, owing to his having been given, for the first time in his life, a
stupefying premonition of his death.
436
-- Hanif Johnson was finishing his speech. _As Dr. Simba has written,
newness will enter this society by collective, not individual, actions_.
He was quoting what Chamcha recognized as one of Camus's most
popular slogans. _The passage from speech to moral action, Hanif was
saying, has a name: to become human_. -- And now a pretty young
British Asian woman with a slightly-toobulbous nose and a dirty, bluesy
voice was launching into Bob Dylan's song, _I Pity the Poor
Immigrant_. Another false and imported note, this: the song actually
seemed rather hostile towards immigrants, though there were lines that
struck chords, about the immigrant's visions shattering like glass,
about how he was obliged to "build his town with blood". Jumpy, with
his versifying attempts to redefine the old racist image of the rivers of
blood, would appreciate that. -- All these things Saladin experienced
and thought as if from a considerable distance. -- What had happened?
This: when Jumpy Joshi pointed out Mishal Sufyan's presence at the
Friends Meeting House, Saladin Chamcha, looking in her direction, saw
a blazing fire burning in the centre of her forehead; and felt, in the
same moment, the beating, and the icy shadow, of a pair of gigantic
wings. -- He experienced the kind of blurring associated with double
vision, seeming to look into two worlds at once; one was the brightly
lit, no-smoking-allowed meeting hall, but the other was a world of
phantoms, in which Azraeel, the exterminating angel, was swooping
towards him, and a girl's forehead could burn with ominous flames. --
_She's death to me, that's what it means_, Chamcha thought in one of
the two worlds, while in the other he told himself not to be foolish; the
room was full of people wearing those inane tribal badges that had
latterly grown so popular, green neon haloes, devil-horns painted with
fluorescent paint; Mishal probably had on some piece of space-age junk
jewellery. -- But his other self took over again, _she's off limits to you_,
it said, _not all possibilities are open to us. The world is finite; our
hopes spill over its rim_. -- Whereupon his heart got in on the act,
bababoom, boomba, dabadoom.
437
Now he was outside, with Jumpy fussing over him and even Pamela
showing concern. "I'm the one with the bun in the oven," she said with
a gruff remnant of affection. "What business have you got to pass out?"
Jumpy insisted: "You'd best come with me to my class; just sit quietly,
and afterwards I'll take you home." -- But Pamela wanted to know if a
doctor was required. _No, no, I'll go with Jumpy, I'll be fine. It was just
hot in there. Airless. My clothes too warm. A stupid thing. A nothing_.
There was an art cinema next to the Friends House, and he was leaning
against a movie poster. The film was _Mephisto_, the story of an actor
seduced into a collaboration with Nazism. In the poster, the actor --
played by the German star Klaus Maria Brandauer -- was dressed up as
Mephistophilis, face white, body cloaked in black, arms upraised. Lines
from _Faust_ stood above his head:
--_Who art thou, then?_
— _Part of that Power, not understood_,
_Which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good_.
At the sports centre: he could scarcely bring himself to glance in
Mishal's direction. (She too had left the Simba meeting in time to make
the class.) -- Although she was all over him, _you came back, I bet it was
to see me, isn't that nice_, he could hardly speak a civil word, much less
ask _were you wearing a luminous something in the middle of your_,
because she wasn't now, kicking her legs and flexing her long body,
resplendent in its black leotard. -- Until, sensing the coldness in him,
she backed off, all confusion and injured pride.
"Our other star hasn't turned up today," Jumpy mentioned to Saladin
during a break in the exercises. "Miss Alleluia Cone, the one who
climbed Everest. I was meaning to introduce you two. She knows, I
438
mean, she's apparently with, Gibreel. Gibreel Farishta, the actor, your
fellow--survivor of the crash."
_Things are closing in on me_. Gibreel was drifting towards him, like
India when, having come unstuck from the Gondwanaland proto--
continent, it floated towards Laurasia. (His processes of mind, he
recognized absently, were coming up with some pretty strange
associations.) When they collided, the force would hurl up Himalayas. --
What is a mountain? An obstacle; a transcendence; above all, an
_effect_.
"Where are you going?" Jumpy was calling. "I thought I was giving you
a lift. Are you okay?"
_I'm fine. I need to walk, that's all_.
"Okay, but only if you're sure."
_Sure_. Walk away fast, without catching Mishal's aggrieved eye.
. . . In the street. Walk quickly, out of this wrong place, this
underworld. -- God: no escape. Here's a shop-front, a store selling
musical instruments, trumpets saxophones oboes, what's the name? --
_Fair Winds_, and here in the window is a cheaply printed handbill.
Announcing the imminent return of, that's right, the Archangel
Gibreel. His return and the salvation of the earth. _Walk. Walk away
fast_.
. . . Hail this taxi. (His clothes inspire deference in the driver.) Climb in
squire do you mind the radio. Some scientist who got caught in that
hijacking and lost the halfof his tongue. American. They rebuilt it, he
says, with flesh taken from his posterior, excuse my French. Wouldn't
fancy a mouthful of my own buttock meat myself but the poor bugger
had no option did he. Funny bastard. Got some funny ideas.
439
Eugene Dumsday on the radio discussed the gaps in the fossil record
with his new, buttocky tongue. _The Devil tried to silence me but the
good Lord and American surgical techniques knew better_. These gaps
were the creationist's main selling--point: if natural selection was the
truth, where were all the random mutations that got deselected? Where
were the monster--children, the deformed babies of evolution? The
fossils were silent. No three-legged horses there. _No point arguing
with these geezers_, the cabbie said. _I don't hold with God myself_. No
point, one small part of Chamcha's consciousness agreed. No point
suggesting that "the fossil record" wasn't some sort of perfect filing
cabinet. And evolution theory had come a long way since Darwin. It was
now being argued that major changes in species happened not in the
stumbling, hit-andmiss manner first envisaged, but in great, radical
leaps. The history of life was not the bumbling progress -- the very
English middleclass progress -- Victorian thought had wanted it to be,
but violent, a thing of dramatic, cumulative transformations: in the old
formulation, more revolution than evolution. -- I've heard enough, the
cabbie said. Eugene Dumsday vanished from the ether, to be replaced by
disco music. _Ave atque vale_.
What Saladin Chamcha understood that day was that he had been living
in a state of phoney peace, that the change in him was irreversible. A
new, dark world had opened up for him (or: within him) when he fell
from the sky; no matter how assiduously he attempted to re--create his
old existence, this was, he now saw, a fact that could not be unmade. He
seemed to see a road before him, forking to left and right. Closing his
eyes, settling back against taxicab upholstery, he chose the left—hand
path.
440
The temperature continued to rise; and when the heatwave reached its
highest point, and stayed up there so long that the whole city, its
edifices, its waterways, its inhabitants, came perilously close to the boil,
-- then Mr. Billy Battuta and his companion Mimi Mamoulian, recently
returned to the metropolis after a period as guests of the penal
authority of New York, announced their "grand coming-out" party.
Billy's business connections downtown had arranged for his case to be
heard by a well-disposed judge; his personal charm had persuaded every
one of the wealthy female "marks" from whom he'd extracted such
generous amounts for the purpose of the re-purchase of his soul from
the Devil (including Mrs. Struwelpeter) to sign a clemency petition, in
which the matrons stated their conviction that Mr. Battuta had
honestly repented him of his error, and asked, in the light of his vow to
concentrate henceforth on his startlingly brilliant entrepreneurial
career (whose social usefulness in terms of wealth creation and the
provision of employment to many persons, they suggested, should also
be considered by the court in mitigation of his offences), and his
further vow to undergo a full course of psychiatric treatment to help
him overcome his weakness for criminal capers, -- that the worthy judge
settle upon some lighter punishment than a prison sentence, "the
deterrent purpose underlying such incarceration being better served
here," in the ladies' opinion, "by a judgment of a more Christian sort".
Mimi, adjudged to be no more than Billy's love-duped underling, was
given a suspended sentence; for Billy it was deportation, and a stiff fine,
but even this was rendered considerably less severe by the judge's
consent to Billy's attorney's plea that his client be allowed to leave the
country voluntarily, without having the stigma of a deportation order
stamped into his passport, a thing that would do great damage to his
many business interests. Twenty-four hours after the judgment Billy
and Mimi were back in London, whooping it up at Crockford's, and
sending out fancy invitation cards to what promised to be _the_ party
of that strangely sweltering season. One of these cards found its way,
with the assistance of Mr. S. S. Sisodia, to the residence of Alleluia
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Cone and Gibreel Farishta; another arrived, a little belatedly, at Saladin
Chamcha's den, slipped under the door by the solicitous Jumpy. (Mimi
had called Pamela to invite her, adding, with her usual directness: "Any
notion where that husband of yours has gotten to?" -- Which Pamela
answered, with English awkwardness, _yes er but_. Mimi got the whole
story out of her in less than half an hour, which wasn't bad, and
concluded triumphantly: "Sounds like your life is looking up, Pam.
Bring "em both; bring anyone. It's going to be quite a circus.")
The location for the party was another of Sisodia's inexplicable
triumphs: the giant sound stage at the Shepperton film studios had
been procured, apparently at no cost, and the guests would be able,
therefore, to take their pleasures in the huge re-creation of Dickensian
London that stood within. A musical adaptation of the great writer's
last completed novel, renamed _Friend!_, with book and lyrics by the
celebrated genius of the musical stage, Mr. Jeremy Bentham, had proved
a mammoth hit in the West End and on Broadway, in spite of the
macabre nature of some of its scenes; now, accordingly, _The Chums_,
as it was known in the business, was receiving the accolade of a big--
budget movie production. "The pipi PR people," Sisodia told Gibreel on
the phone, "think that such a fufufuck, _function_, which is to be most
ista ista istar ista ista istudded, will be good for their bibuild up
cacampaign."
The appointed night arrived: a night of dreadful heat.
Shepperton! -- Pamela and Jumpy are already here, borne on the wings
of Pamela's MG, when Chamcha, having disdained their company,
arrives in one of the fleet of coaches the evening's hosts have made
available to those guests wishing for whatever reason to be driven
rather than to drive. -- And someone else, too, -- the one with whom our
Saladin fell to earth, -- has come; is wandering within. -- Chamcha
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enters the arena; and is amazed. -- Here London has been altered -- no,
_condensed_, -- according to the imperatives of film. -- Why, here's the
Stucconia of the Veneerings, those bran-new, spick and span new
people, lying shockingly adjacent to Portman Square, and the shady
angle containing various Podsnaps. -- And worse: behold the dustman's
mounds of Boffin's Bower, supposedly in the near vicinity of Holloway,
looming in this abridged metropolis over Fascination Fledgeby's rooms
in the Albany, the West End's very heart! -- But the guests are not
disposed to grumble; the reborn city, even rearranged, still takes the
breath away; most particularly in that part of the immense studio
through which the river winds, the river with its fogs and Gaffer
Hexam's boat, the ebbing Thames flowing beneath two bridges, one of
iron, one of stone. -- Upon its cobbled banks the guests' gay footsteps
fall; and there sound mournful, misty, footfalls of ominous note. A dry
ice pea-souper lifts across the set.
Society grandees, fashion models, film stars, corporation bigwigs, a
brace of minor royal Personages, useful politicians and suchlike riff-raff
perspire and mingle in these counterfeit streets with numbers of men
and women as sweat-glistened as the "real" guests and as counterfeit as
the city: hired extras in period costume, as well as a selection of the
movie's leading players. Chamcha, who realizes in the moment of
sighting him that this encounter has been the whole purpose of his
journey, -- which fact he has succeeded in keeping from himself until
this instant, -- spots Gibreel in the increasingly riotous crowd.
Yes: there, on London Bridge Which Is Of Stone, without a doubt,
Gibreel! -- And that must be his Alleluia, his Icequeen Cone! -- What a
distant expression he seems to be wearing, how he lists a few degrees to
the left; and how she seems to dote on him -- how everyone adores him:
for he is among the very greatest at the party, Battuta to his left,
Sisodia at Allie's right, and all about a host of faces that would be
recognized from Peru to Timbuctoo! -- Chamcha struggles through the
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crowd, which grows ever more dense as he nears the bridge; -- but he is
resolved -- Gibreel, he will reach Gibreel! -- when with a clash of
cymbals loud music strikes up, one of Mr. Bentham's immortal,
showstopping tunes, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea before the
children of Israel. -- Chamcha, off--balance, staggers back, is crushed by
the parting crowd against a fake half-timbered edifice -- what else? -- a
Curiosity Shop; and, to save himself, retreats within, while a great
singing throng of bosomy ladies in mobcaps and frilly blouses,
accompanied by an over-sufficiency of stovepipe-hatted gents, comes
rollicking down the riverside street, singing for all they're worth.
_What kind of fellow is Our Mutual Friend?_
_What does he intend?_
_Is he the kind of fellow on whom we may depend?_
_etc. etc. etc._
"It's a funny thing," a woman's voice says behind him, "but when we
were doing the show at the C-- Theatre, there was an outbreak of lust
among the cast; quite unparalleled, in my experience. People started
missing their cues because of the shenanigans in the wings."
The speaker, he observes, is young, small, buxom, far from unattractive,
damp from the heat, flushed with wine, and evidently in the grip of the
libidinous fever of which she speaks. -- The "room" has little light, but
he can make out the glint in her eye. "We've got time," she continues
matter--of--factly. "After this lot finish there's Mr. Podsnap's solo."
Whereupon, arranging herself in an expert parody of the Marine
Insurance agent's selfimportant posture, she launches into her own
version of the scheduled musical Podsnappery:
_Ours is a Copious Language_,
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_A Language Trying to Strangers_;
_Ours is the Favoured Nation_,
_Blest, and Safe from Dangers_ . . .
Now, in Rex-Harrisonian speech-song, she addresses an invisible
Foreigner. "And How Do You Like London? -- 'Aynormaymong rich?' --
Enormously Rich, we say. Our English adverbs do Not terminate in
Mong. -- And Do You Find, Sir, Many Evidences of our British
Constitution in the Streets of the World's Metropolis, London,
Londres, London? -- I would say," she adds, still Podsnapping, "that
there is in the Englishman a combination of qualities, a modesty, an
independence, a responsibility, a repose, which one would seek in vain
among the Nations of the Earth."
The creature has been approaching Chamcha while delivering herself of
these lines; -- unfastening, the while, her blouse; -- and he, mongoose to
her cobra, stands there transfixed; while she, exposing a shapely right
breast, and offering it to him, points out that she has drawn upon it, --
as an act of civic pride, -- the map of London, no less, in red magic-
marker, with the river all in blue. The metropolis summons him; -- but
he, giving an entirely Dickensian cry, pushes his way out of the
Curiosity Shop into the madness of the street.
Gibreel is looking directly at him from London Bridge; their eyes -- or
so it seems to Chamcha -- meet. Yes: Gibreel lifts, and waves, an
unexcited arm.
What follows is tragedy. -- Or, at the least the echo of tragedy, the full-
blooded original being unavailable to modern men and women, so it's
said. -- A burlesque for our degraded, imitative times, in which clowns
re-enact what was first done by heroes and by kings. -- Well, then, so be
445
it. -- The question that's asked here remains as large as ever it was:
which is, the nature of evil, how it's born, why it grows, how it takes
unilateral possession of a many-sided human soul. Or, let's say: the
enigma of Iago.
It's not unknown for literary--theatrical exegetes, defeated by the
character, to ascribe his actions to "motiveless malignity". Evil is evil
and will do evil, and that's that; the serpent's poison is his very
definition. -- Well, such shruggings-off will not pass muster here. My
Chamcha may be no Ancient of Venice, my Allie no smothered
Desdemona, Farishta no match for the Moor, but they will, at least, be
costumed in such explanations as my understanding will allow. -- And
so, now, Gibreel waves in greeting; Chamcha approaches; the curtain
rises on a darkening stage.
Let's observe, first, how isolated this Saladin is; his only willing
companion an inebriated and cartographically bosomed stranger, he
struggles alone through that partying throng in which all persons
appear to be (and are not) one another's friends; -- while there on
London Bridge stands Farishta, beset by admirers, at the very centre of
the crowd;
and, next, let us appreciate the effect on Chamcha, who loved England
in the form of his lost English wife, -- of the golden, pale and glacial
presence by Farishta's side of Alleluia Cone; he snatches a glass from a
passing waiter's tray, drinks the wine fast, takes another; and seems to
see, in distant Allie, the entirety of his loss;
and in other ways, as well, Gibreel is fast becoming the sum of Saladin's
defeats; -- there with him now, at this very moment, is another traitor;
mutton dressed as lamb, fifty plus and batting her eyelashes like an
eighteen-year--old, is Chamcha's agent, the redoubtable Charlie Sellers;
446
-- you wouldn't liken him to a Transylvanian bloodsucker, would you,
Charlie, the irate watcher inwardly cries; -- and grabs another glass; --
and sees, at its bottom, his own anonymity, the other's equal celebrity,
and the great injustice of the division;
most especially -- he bitterly reflects -- because Gibreel, London's
conqueror, can see no value in the world now falling at his feet! -- why,
the bastard always sneered at the place, Proper London, Vilayet, the
English, Spoono, what cold fish they are, I swear; -- Chamcha, moving
inexorably towards him through the crowd, seems to see, _right now_,
that same sneer upon Farishta's face, that scorn of an inverted
Podsnap, for whom all things English are worthy of derision instead of
praise; -- O God, the cruelty of it, that he, Saladin, whose goal and
crusade it was to make this town his own, should have to see it kneeling
before his contemptuous rival! -- so there is also this: that Chamcha
longs to stand in Farishta's shoes, while his own footwear is of no
interest whatsoever to Gibreel.
What is unforgivable?
Chamcha, looking upon Farishta's face for the first time since their
rough parting in Rosa Diamond's hail, seeing the strange blankness in
the other's eyes, recalls with overwhelming force the earlier blankness,
Gibreel standing on the stairs and doing nothing while he, Chamcha,
horned and captive, was dragged into the night; and feels the return of
hatred, feels it filling him bottom--to--top with fresh green bile, _never
mind about excuses_, it cries, _to hell with mitigations and what-could-
he-have-dones; what's beyond forgiveness is beyond. You can't judge an
internal injury by the size of the hole_.
So: Gibreel Farishta, put on trial by Chamcha, gets a rougher ride than
Mimi and Billy in New York, and is declared guilty, for all perpetuity, of
the Inexcusable Thing. From which what follows, follows. -- But we may
permit ourselves to speculate a while about the true nature of this
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Ultimate, this Inexpiable Offence. -- Is it really, can it be, simply his
silence on Rosa's stairs? -- Or are there deeper resentments here, gripes
for which this so-called Primary Cause is, in truth, no more than a
substitute, a front? -- For are they not conjoined opposites, these two,
each man the other's shadow? -- One seeking to be transformed into the
foreignness he admires, the other preferring, contemptuously, to
transform; one, a hapless fellow who seems to be continually punished
for uncommitted crimes, the other, called angelic by one and all, the
type of man who gets away with everything. -- We may describe
Chamcha as being somewhat less than life--size; but loud, vulgar
Gibreel is, without question, a good deal larger than life, a disparity
which might easily inspire neo-Procrustean lusts in Chamcha: to stretch
himself by cutting Farishta down to size.
What is unforgivable?
What if not the shivering nakedness of being _wholly known_ to a
person one does not trust? -- And has not Gibreel seen Saladin
Chamcha in circumstances -- hijack, fall, arrest -- in which the secrets of
the self were utterly exposed?
Well, then. -- Are we coming closer to it? Should we even say that these
arc two fundamentally" different _types_ of self? Might we not agree
that Gibreel, for all his stage-name and performances; and in spite of
born-again slogans, new beginnings, metamorphoses; -- has wished to
remain, to a large degree, _continuous_ -- that is, joined to and arising
from his past; -- that he chose neither near--fatal illness nor
transmuting fall; that, in point of fact, he fears above all things the
altered states in which his dreams leak into, and overwhelm, his waking
self, making him that angelic Gibreel he has no desire to be; -- so that
his is still a self which, for our present purposes, we may describe as
"true" . . . whereas Saladin Chamcha is a creature of _selected_ dis-
continuities, a _willing_ re--invention; his _preferred_ revolt against
history being what makes him, in our chosen idiom, "false"? And might
448
we then not go on to say that it is this falsity of self that makes possible
in Chamcha a worse and deeper falsity -- call this "evil" -- and that this
is the truth, the door, that was opened in him by his fall? -- While
Gibreel, to follow the logic of our established terminology, is to be
considered "good" by virtue of _wishing to remain_, for all his
vicissitudes, at bottom an untranslated man.
-- But, and again but: this sounds, does it not, dangerously like an
intentionalist fallacy? -- Such distinctions, resting as they must on an
idea of the self as being (ideally) homogeneous, non-hybrid, "pure", --
an utterly fantastic notion! -- cannot, must not, suffice. No! Let's
rather say an even harder thing: that evil may not be as far beneath our
surfaces as we like to say it is. -- That, in fact, we fall towards it
_naturally_, that is, _not against our natures_. -- And that Saladin
Chamcha set out to destroy Gibreel Farishta because, finally, it proved
so easy to do; the true appeal of evil being the seductive ease with which
one may embark upon that road. (And, let us add in conclusion, the
later impossibility of return.)
Saladin Chamcha, however, insists on a simpler line. "It was his treason
at Rosa Diamond's house; his silence, nothing more."
He sets foot upon the counterfeit London Bridge. From a nearby red-
and-white-striped puppeteer's booth, Mr. Punch -- whacking Judy --
calls out to him: _That's the way to do it!_ After which Gibreel, too,
speaks a greeting, the enthusiasm of the words undone by the
incongruous listlessness of the voice: "Spoono, is it you. You bloody
devil. There you are, big as life. Come here, you Salad baba, old
Chumch."
This happened:
449
The moment Saladin Chamcha got close enough to Allie Cone to be
transfixed, and somewhat chilled, by her eyes, he felt his reborn
animosity towards Gibreel extending itself to her, with her degree-zero
go-to-hell look, her air of being privy to some great, secret mystery of
the universe; also, her quality of what he would afterwards think of as
_wilderness_, a hard, sparse thing, antisocial, self-contained, an
essence. Why did it annoy him so much? Why, before she'd even opened
her mouth, had he characterized her as part of the enemy?
Perhaps because he desired her; and desired, even more, what he took to
be that inner certainty of hers; lacking which, he envied it, and sought
to damage what he envied. If love is a yearning to be like (even to
become) the beloved, then hatred, it must be said, can be engendered by
the same ambition, when it cannot be fulfilled.
This happened: Chamcha invented an Allie, and became his fiction's
antagonist. . . he showed none of this. He smiled, shook hands, was
pleased to meet her; and embraced Gibreel. _I follow him to serve my
turn upon him_. Allie, suspecting nothing, excused herself. The two of
them must have so much to catch up on, she said; and, promising to
return soon, departed: off, as she put it, to explore. He noticed that she
hobbled slightly for a step or two; then paused, and strode off strongly.
Among the things he did not know about her was her pain.
Not knowing that the Gibreel standing before him, remote of eye and
perfunctory in his greeting, was under the most attentive medical
supervision; -- or that he was obliged to take, on a daily basis, certain
drugs that dulled his senses, because of the very real possibility of a
recurrence of his no--longer--nameless illness, that is to say, paranoid
schizophrenia; -- or that he had long been kept away, at Allie's absolute
insistence, from the movie people whom she had come strongly to
distrust, ever since his last rampage; -- or that their presence at the
Battuta--Mamoulian party was a thing to which she had been whole-
heartedly opposed, acquiescing only after a terrible scene in which
450
Gibreel had roared that he would be kept a prisoner no longer, and that
he was determined to make a further effort to re--enter his "real life"; --
or that the effort of looking after a disturbed lover who was capable of
seeing small bat-like imps hanging upside down in the refrigerator had
worn Allie thin as a worn-out shirt, forcing upon her the roles of nurse,
scapegoat and crutch -- requiring her, in sum, to act against her own
complex and troubled nature; -- not knowing any of this, failing to
comprehend that the Gibreel at whom he was looking, and believed he
saw, Gibreel the embodiment of all the good fortune that the Fury-
haunted Chamcha so signally lacked, was as much the creature of his
fancy, as much a fiction, as his invented--resented Allie, that classic
drop--dead blonde or femme fatale conjured up by his envious,
tormented, Oresteian imagination, -- Saladin in his ignorance
nevertheless penetrated, by the merest chance, the chink in Gibreel's
(admittedly somewhat quixotic) armour, and understood how his hated
Other might most swiftly be unmade.
Gibreel's banal question made the opening. Limited by sedatives to
small-talk, he asked vaguely: "And how, tell me, is your goodwife?" At
which Chamcha, his tongue loosened by alcohol, blurted out: "How?
Knocked up. Enceinte. Great with fucking child." Soporific Gibreel
missed the violence in this speech, beamed absently, placed an arm
around Saladin's shoulders. "Shabash, mubarak," he offered
congratulations. "Spoono! Damn speedy work."
"Congratulate her lover," Saladin thickly raged. "My old friend, Jumpy
Joshi. Now there, I admit it, is a man. Women go wild, it seems. God
knows why. They want his goddamn babies and they don't even wait to
ask his leave."
"For instance who?" Gibreel yelled, making heads turn and Chamcha
recoil in surprise. "Who who who?" he hooted, causing tipsy giggles.
Saladin Chamcha laughed, too: but without pleasure. "I'll tell you who
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for instance. My wife for instance, that's who. That is no lady, mister
Farishta, Gibreel. Pamela, my nolady wife."
At this very moment, as luck would have it, -- while Saladin in his cups
was quite ignorant of the effect his words were having on Gibreel, -- for
whom two images had explosively combined, the first being his sudden
memory of Rekha Merchant on a flying carpet warning him of Allie's
secret wish to have a baby without informing the father, _who asks the
seed for permission to plant_, and the second being an envisioning of
the body of the martial arts instructor conjoined in high--kicking
carnality with the same Miss Alleluia Cone, -- the figure of Jumpy Joshi
was seen crossing "Southwark Bridge" in a state of some agitation, --
hunting, in fact, for Pamela, from whom he had become separated
during the same rush of singing Dickensians which had pushed Saladin
towards the metropolitan breasts of the young woman in the Curiosity
Shop. "Talk of the devil," Saladin pointed. "There the bastard goes." He
turned towards Gibreel: but Gibreel had gone.
Allie Cone reappeared, angry, frantic. "Where is he? Jesus! Can't I even
leave him for a fucking _second?_ Couldn't you have kept your sodding
_eyes_ on him?"
"Why, what's the matter --?" But now Allie had plunged into the crowd,
so that when Chamcha saw Gibreel crossing "Southwark Bridge" she
was out of earshot. -- And here was Pamela, demanding: "Have you seen
Jumpy?" -- And he pointed, "That way," whereupon she, too, vanished
without a word of courtesy; and now Jumpy was seen, crossing
"Southwark Bridge" in the opposite direction, curly hair wilder than
ever, coathanger shoulders hunched inside the greatcoat he had refused
to remove, eyes searching, thumb homing in on mouth; -- and, a little
later, Gibreel headed across the simulacrum of that bridge Which Is Of
Iron, going the same way as Jumpy went.
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In short, events had begun to border on the farcical; but when, some
minutes later, the actor playing the role of "Gaffer Hexam", who kept
watch over that stretch of the Dickensian Thames for floating corpses,
to relieve them of their valuables before handing them over to the
police, -- came rowing rapidly down the studio river with his stipulated
ragged, grizzled hair standing straight up on end, the farce was
instantly terminated; for there in his disreputable boat lay the insensate
body of Jumpy Joshi in his waterlogged greatcoat. "Knocked cold," the
boatman cried, pointing to the huge lump rising up at the back of
Jumpy's skull, "and being unconscious in the water it's a miracle he
never drowned."
One week after that, in response to an impassioned telephone call from
Allie Cone, who had tracked him down via Sisodia, Battuta and finally
Mimi, and who appeared to have defrosted quite a bit, Saladin Chamcha
found himself in the passenger seat of a three--year-old silver Citroen
station wagon which the future Alicja Boniek had presented to her
daughter before leaving for an extended Californian stay. Allie had met
him at Carlisle station, repeating her earlier telephonic apologies -- "I'd
no right to speak to you like that; you knew nothing, I mean about his,
well, thank heavens nobody saw the attack, and it seems to have been
hushed up, but that poor man, an oar on the head from behind, it's too
bad; the point is, we've taken a place up north, friends of mine are
away, it just seemed best to get out of range of human beings, and, well,
he's been asking for you; you could really help him, I think, and to be
frank I could do with the help myself," which left Saladin little the
wiser but consumed by curiosity -- and now Scotland was rushing past
the Citroen windows at alarming speed: an edge of Hadrian's Wall, the
old elopers' haven Gretna Green, and then inland towards the Southern
Uplands; Ecclefechan, Lockerbie, Beattock, Elvanfoot. Chamcha tended
to think of all non-metropolitan locales as the deeps of interstellar
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space, and journeys into them as fraught with peril: for to break down
in such emptiness would surely be to die alone and undiscovered. He
had noted warily that one of the Citroen's headlamps was broken, that
the fuel gauge was in the red (it turned out to be broken, too), the
daylight was failing, and Allie was driving as if the A74 were the track at
Silverstone on a sunny day. "He can't get far without transport, but you
neverknow," she explained grimly. "Three days ago he stole the car keys
and they found him heading the wrong way up an exit road on the Mo,
shouting about damnation. _Prepare for the vengeance of the Lord_, he
told the motorway cops, _for I shall soon summon my lieutenant,
Azraeel_. They wrote it all down in their little books." Chamcha, his
heart still filled with his own vengeful lusts, affected sympathy and
shock. "And Jumpy?" he inquired. Allie took both hands off the wheel
and spread them in an I-giveup gesture, while the car wobbled
terrifyingly across the bendy road. "The doctors say the possessive
jealousy could be part of the same thing; at least, it can set the madness
off, like a fuse."
She was glad of the chance to talk; and Chamcha lent her a willing ear.
If she trusted him, it was because Gibreel did, too; he had no intention
of damaging that trust. _Once he betrayed my trust; now let him, for a
time, have confidence in me_. He was a tyro puppeteer; it was necessary
to study the strings, to find out what was connected to what ... "I
can't help it," Allie was saying. "I feel in some obscure way to blame for
him. Our life isn't working out and it's my fault. My mother gets angry
when I talk like this." Alicja, on the verge of catching the plane west,
berated her daughter at Terminal Three. "I don't understand where you
get these notions from," she cried amid backpackers, briefcases and
weeping Asian mums. "You could say your father's life didn't go
according to plan, either. So he should be blamed for the camps? Study
history, Alleluia. In this century history stopped paying attention to the
old psychological orientation of reality. I mean, these days, character
isn't destiny any more. Economics is destiny. Ideology is destiny.
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Bombs are destiny. What does a famine, a gas chamber, a grenade care
how you lived your life? Crisis comes, death comes, and your pathetic
individual self doesn't have a thing to do with it, only to suffer the
effects. This Gibreel of yours: maybe he's how history happens to you."
She had returned, without warning, to the grand style of wardrobe
preferred by Otto Cone, and, it seemed, to an oratorical manner that
suited the big black hats and frilly suits. "Enjoy California, Mother,"
Allie said sharply. "One of us is happy," Alicja said. "Why shouldn't it
be me?" And before her daughter could answer, she swept off past the
passengers--only barrier, flourishing passport, boarding-pass, ticket,
heading for the duty-free bottles of Opium and Gordon's Gin, which
were on sale beneath an illuminated sign reading SAY HELLO TO THE
GOOD BUYS.
In the last light, the road rounded a spur of treeless, heather-covered
hills. Long ago, in another country, another twilight, Chamcha had
rounded another such spur and come into sight of the remains of
Persepolis. Now, however, he was heading for a human ruin; not to
admire, and maybe even (for the decision to do evil is never finally
taken until the very instant of the deed; there is always a last chance to
withdraw) to vandalize. To scrawl his name in Gibreel's flesh: _Saladin
woz ear_. "Why stay with him?" he asked Allie, and to his surprise she
blushed. "Why not spare yourself the pain?"
"I don't really know you, not at all, really," she began, then paused and
made a choice. "I'm not proud of the answer, but it's the truth," she
said. "It's the sex. We're unbelievable together, perfect, like nothing
I've known. Dream lovers. He just seems to, to _know_. To know _me_."
She fell silent; the night hid her face. Chamcha's bitterness surged up
again. Dream lovers were all around him; he, dreamless, could only
watch. He gritted angry teeth; and bit, by mistake, his tongue.
Gibreel and Allie had holed up in Durisdeer, a village so small it didn't
have a pub, and were living in a deconsecrated Freekirk converted -- the
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quasi-religious term sounded strange to Chamcha -- by an architect
friend of Allie's who had made a fortune out of such metamorphoses of
the sacred into the profane. It struck Saladin as a gloomy sort of place,
for all its white walls, recessed spotlights and wall-to-wall shag— pile
carpeting. There were gravestones in the garden. As a retreat for a man
suffering from paranoid delusions of being the chief archangel of God,
Chamcha reflected, it wouldn't have been his own first choice. The
Freekirk was set a little apart from the dozen or so other stone— and—
tile houses that made up the community: isolated even within this
isolation. Gibreel was standing at the door, a shadow against the
illuminated hallway, when the car pulled up. "You got here," he
shouted. "Yaar, too good. Welcome to bloody jail."
The drugs made Gibreel clumsy. As the three of them sat around the
pitch-pine kitchen table beneath the gentrified pulldown dimmer-
switched lighting, he twice knocked over his coffee — cup (he was
ostentatiously off booze; Allie, pouring two generous shots of Scotch,
kept Chamcha company), and, cursing, stumbled about the kitchen for
paper-towels to mop up the mess. "When I get sick of being this way
Ijust cut down without telling her," he confessed. "And then the shit
starts happening. I swear to you, Spoono, I can't bear the bloody idea
that it will never stop, that the only choice is drugs or bugs in the
brain. I can't bloody bear it. I swear, yaar, if I thought that was it, then,
bas, I don't know, I"d, I don't know what."
"Shut your face," Allie softly said. But he shouted out: "Spoono, I even
hit her, do you know that? Bloody hell. One day I thought she was some
rakshasa type of demon and Ijust went for her. Do you know how
strong it is, the strength of madness?"
"Fortunately for me I'd been going to -- oops, eek -- those selfdefence
classes," Allie grinned. "He's exaggerating to save face. Actually he was
the one who ended up banging his head on the floor." -- "Right here,"
Gibreel sheepishly assented. The kitchen floor was made of large
456
flagstones. "Painful," Chamcha hazarded. "Damn right," Gibreel
roared, strangely cheerful now. "Knocked me bilkul cold."
The Freekirk's interior had been divided into a large twostorey (in
estate agent's jargon, "double volume") reception-room -- the former
hall of congregation -- and a more conventional half, with kitchen and
utilities downstairs and bedrooms and bathroom above. Unable for
some reason to sleep, Chamcha wandered at midnight into the great
(and cold: the heatwave might be continuing in the south of England,
but there wasn't a ripple of it up here, where the climate was autumnal
and chill) living-room, and wandered among the ghost-voices of
banished preachers while Gibreel and Allie made high-volume love.
_Like Pamela_. He tried to think of Mishal, of Zeeny Vakil, but it didn't
work. Stuffing his fingers in his ears, he fought against the sound
effects of the copulation of Farishta and Alleluia Cone.
Theirs had been a high-risk conjoining from the start, he reflected:
first, Gibreel's dramatic abandonment of career and rush across the
earth, and now, Allie's uncompromising determination to _see it
through_, to defeat in him this mad, angelic divinity and restore the
humanity she loved. No compromises for them; they were going for
broke. Whereas he, Saladin, had declared himself content to live under
the same roof as his wife and her lover boy. Which was the better way?
Captain Ahab drowned, he reminded himself; it was the trimmer,
Ishmael, who survived.
In the morning Gibreel ordered an ascent of the local "Top". But Allie
declined, although it was plain to Chamcha that her return to the
countryside had caused her to glow with joy. "Bloody flatfoot mame,"
Gibreel cursed her lovingly. "Come on, Salad. Us damn city slickers can
show the Everest conqueror how to climb. What a bloody upside-down
life, yaar. We go mountain-climbing while she sits here and makes
457
business calls." Saladin's thoughts were racing: he understood, now,
that strange hobble at Shepperton; understood, too, that this secluded
haven would have to be temporary -- that Allie, by coming here, was
sacrificing her own life, and wouldn't be able to go on doing so
indefinitely. What should he do? Anything? Nothing? -- If revenge was
to be taken, when and how? "Get these boots on," Gibreel commanded.
"You think the rain will hold off all fucking day?"
It didn't. By the time they reached the stone cairn at the summit of
Gibreel's chosen climb, they were enveloped in a fine drizzle. "Damn
good show," Gibreel panted. "Look: there she is, down there, sitting
back like the Grand Panjandrum." He pointed down at the Freekirk.
Chamcha, his heart pounding, was feeling foolish. He must start
behaving like a man with a ticker problem. Where was the glory in dying
of heart failure on this nothing of a Top, for nothing, in the rain? Then
Gibreel got out his fieldglasses and started scanning the valley. There
were hardly any moving figures to be seen -- two or three men and dogs,
some sheep, no more. Gibreel tracked the men with his binoculars.
"Now that we're alone," he suddenly said, "I can tell you why we really
came away to this damn empty hole. It's because of her. Yes, yes; don't
be fooled by my act! It's all her bloody beauty. Men, Spoono: they chase
her like goddamn flies. I swear! I see them, slobbering and grabbing. It
isn't right. She is a very private person, the most private person in the
world. We have to protect her from lust."
This speech took Saladin by surprise. You poor bastard, he thought,
you really are going off your wretched head at a rate of knots. And, hard
on the heels of this thought, a second sentence appeared, as if by magic,
in his head: _Don't imagine that means I'll let you off_.
On the drive back to the Carlisle railway station, Chamcha mentioned
the depopulation of the countryside. "There's no work," Allie said. "So
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it's empty. Gibreel says he can't get used to the idea that all this space
indicates poverty: says it looks like luxury to him, after India's crowds."
-- "And your work?" Chamcha asked. "What about that?" She smiled at
him, the ice-- maiden facade long gone. "You're a nice man to ask. I
keep thinking, one day it'll be my life in the middle, taking first place.
Or, well, although I find it hard to use the first person plural: our life.
That sounds better, right?"
"Don't let him cut you off," Saladin advised. "From Jumpy, from your
own worlds, whatever." This was the moment at which his campaign
could truly be said to have begun; when he set a foot upon that
effortless, seductive road on which there was only one way to go.
"You're right," Allie was saying. "God, if he only knew. His precious
Sisodia, for example: it's not just sevenfoot starlets he goes for, though
he sure as hell likes those." -- "He made a pass," Chamcha guessed; and,
simultaneously, filed the information away for possible later use. "He's
totally shameless," Allie laughed. "It was right under Gibreel's nose. He
doesn't mind rejection, though: he just bows, and murmurs _no
offoffoffence_, and that's that. Can you imagine if I told Gibreel?"
Chamcha at the railway station wished Allie luck. "We'll have to be in
London for a couple of weeks," she said through the car window. "I've
got meetings. Maybe you and Gibreel can get together then; this has
really done him good."
"Call any time," he waved goodbye, and watched the Citroen until it
was out of sight.
That Allie Cone, the third point of a triangle of fictions -- for had not
Gibreel and Allie come together very largely by imagining, out of their
own needs, an "Allie" and a "Gibreel" with whom each could fall in
love; and was not Chamcha now imposing on them the requirements of
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his own troubled and disappointed heart? -- was to be the unwitting,
innocent agent of Chamcha's revenge, became even plainer to the
plotter, Saladin, when he found that Gibreel, with whom he had
arranged to spend an equatorial London afternoon, wanted nothing so
much as to describe in embarrassing detail the carnal ecstasy of sharing
Allie's bed. What manner of people were these, Saladin wondered with
distaste, who enjoyed inflicting their intimacies on non-participating
others? As Gibreel (with something like relish) described positions,
love--bites, the secret vocabularies of desire, they strolled in Brickhall
Fields among schoolgirls and roller-- skating infants and fathers
throwing boomerangs and frisbees incompetently at scornful sons, and
picked their way through broiling horizontal secretarial flesh; and
Gibreel interrupted his erotic rhapsody to mention, madly, that "I
sometimes look at these pink people and instead of skin, Spoono, what
I see is rotting meat; I smell their putrefaction here," he tapped his
nostrils fervently, as if revealing a mystery, "in my _nose_." Then once
again to Allie's inner thighs, her cloudy eyes, the perfect valley of her
lower back, the little cries she liked to make. This was a man in
imminent danger of coming apart at the seams. The wild energy, the
manic particularity of his descriptions suggested to Chamcha that he'd
been cutting down on his dosages again, that he was rolling upwards
towards the crest of a deranged high, that condition of febrile
excitement that was like blind drunkenness in one respect (according to
Allie), namely that Gibreel could remember nothing of what he said or
did when, as was inevitable, he came down to earth. -- On and on went
the descriptions, the unusual length of her nipples, her dislike of
having her navel interfered with, the sensitivity of her toes. Chamcha
told himself that, madness or no madness, what all this sex-talk
revealed (because there had been Allie in the Citroen too) was the
_weakness_ of their so--called "grand passion" -- a term which Allie had
only half-jokingly employed -- because, in a phrase, there was nothing
else about it that was any good; there was simply no other aspect of
their togetherness to rhapsodize about. -- At the same time, however, he
460
felt himself becoming aroused. He began to see himself standing
outside her window, while she stood there naked like an actress on a
screen, and a man's hands caressed her in a thousand ways, bringing
her closer and closer to ecstasy; he came to see himself as that pair of
hands, he could almost feel her coolness, her responses, almost hear her
cries. -- He controlled himself. His desire disgusted him. She was
unattainable; this was pure voyeurism, and he would not succumb to it.
-- But the desire Gibreel's revelations had aroused would not go away.
Gibreel's sexual obsession, Chamcha reminded himself, actually made
things easier. "She's certainly a very attractive woman," he murmured
by way of an experiment, and was gratified to receive a furious, strung-
out glare in return. After which Gibreel, making a show of controlling
himself, put his arm around Saladin and boomed: "Apologies, Spoono,
I'm a bad-tempered bugger where she's concerned. But you and me!
We're bhaibhai! Been through the worst and come out smiling; come on
now, enough of this little nowhere park. Let's hit town."
There is the moment before evil; then the moment of; then the time
after, when the step has been taken, and each subsequent stride
becomes progressively easier. "Fine with me," Chamcha replied. "It's
good to see you looking so well."
A boy of six or seven cycled past them on a BMX bike. Chamcha,
turning his head to follow the boy's progress, saw that he was moving
smoothly away down an avenue of overarching trees, through which the
hot sunlight managed here and there to drip. The shock of discovering
the location of his dream disoriented Chamcha briefly, and left him
with a bad taste in his mouth: the sour flavour of might-have-beens.
Gibreel hailed a taxi; and requested Trafalgar Square.
O, he was in a high good humour that day, rubbishing London and the
English with much of his old brio. Where Chamcha saw attractively
faded grandeur, Gibreel saw a wreck, a Crusoe-city, marooned on the
461
island of its past, and trying, with the help of a Man-Friday underclass,
to keep up appearances. Under the gaze of stone lions he chased
pigeons, shouting: "I swear, Spoono, back home these fatties wouldn't
last one day; let's take one home for dinner." Chamcha's Englished soul
cringed for shame. Later, in Covent Garden, he described for Gibreel's
benefit the day the old fruit and vegetable market moved to Nine Elms.
The authorities, worried about rats, had sealed the sewers and killed
tens of thousands; but hundreds more survived. "That day, starving rats
swarmed out on to the pavements," he recalled. "All the way down the
Strand and over Waterloo Bridge, in and out of the shops, desperate for
food." Gibreel snorted. "Now I know this is a sinking ship," he cried,
and Chamcha felt furious at having given him the opening. "Even the
bloody rats are off." And, after a pause: "What they needed was a pied
piper, no? Leading them to destruction with a tune."
When he wasn't insulting the English or describing Allie's body from
the roots of her hair to the soft triangle of "the loveplace, the goddamn
yoni," he seemed to wish to make lists: what were Spoono's ten
favourite books, he wanted to know; also movies, female film stars,
food. Chamcha offered conventional cosmopolitan answers. His movie--
list included _Potemkin_, _Kane_, _Otto e Mezzo_, _The Seven
Samurai_, _Alphaville_, _El Angel Exterm inador_. "You've been
brainwashed," Gibreel scoffed. "All this Western art-house crap." His
top ten of everything came from "back home", and was aggressively
lowbrow. _Mother India_, _Mr. India_, _Shree Charsawbees_: no Ray,
no Mrinal Sen, no Aravindan or Ghatak. "Your head's so full of junk,"
he advised Saladin, "you forgot everything worth knowing."
His mounting excitement, his babbling determination to turn the world
into a cluster of hit parades, his fierce walking pace -- they must have
walked twenty miles by the end of their travels -- suggested to Chamcha
that it wouldn't take much, now, to push him over the edge. _It seems I
turned out to be a confidence man, too, Mimi. The art of the assassin is
462
co draw the victim close; makes him easier to knjfe_. "I'm getting
hungry," Gibreel imperiously announced. "Take me to one of your top-
ten eateries."
In the taxicab, Gibreel needled Chamcha, who had not informed him of
the destination. "Some Frenchy joint, na? Or Japanese, with raw fishes
and octopuses. God, why I trust your taste."
They arrived at the Shaandaar Cafe.
Jumpy wasn't there.
Nor, apparently, had Mishal Sufyan patched things up with her mother;
Mishal and Hanif were absent, and neither Anahita nor her mother gave
Chamcha a greeting that could be described as warm. Only Haji Sufyan
was welcoming: "Come, come, sit; you're looking good." The cafe was
oddly empty, and even Gibreel's presence failed to create much of a stir.
It took Chamcha a few seconds to understand what was up; then he saw
the quartet of white youths sitting at a corner table, spoiling for a
fight.
The young Bengali waiter (whom Hind had been obliged to employ after
her elder daughter's departure) came over and took their order --
aubergmes, sikh kababs, rice -- while staring angrily in the direction of
the troublesome quartet, who were, as Saladin now perceived, very
drunk indeed. The waiter, Amin, was as annoyed with Sufyan as the
drunks. "Should never have let them sit," he mumbled to Chamcha and
Gibreel. "Now I'm obliged to serve. It's okay for the seth; he's not the
front line, see."
The drunks got their food at the same time as Chamcha and Gibreel.
When they started complaining about the cooking, the atmosphere in
the room grew even more highly charged. Finally they stood up. "We're
463
not eating this shit, you cunts," yelled the leader, a tiny, runty fellow
with sandy hair, a pale thin face, and spots. "It's shit. You can go fuck
yourselves, fucking cunts." His three companions, giggling and
swearing, left the cafe. The leader lingered for a moment. "Enjoying
your food?" he screamed at Chamcha and Gibreel. "It's fucking shit. Is
that what you eat at home, is it? Cunts." Gibreel was wearing an
expression that said, loud and clear: so this is what the British, that
great nation of conquerors, have become in the end. He did not
respond. The little rat--faced speaker came over. "I asked you a fucking
question," he said. "I said. Are you fucking enjoying your fucking _shit
dinner?_" And Saladin Chamcha, perhaps out of his annoyance that
Gibreel had not been confronted by the man he'd all but killed --
catching him off guard from behind, the coward's way -- found himself
answering: "We would be, if it wasn't for you." Ratboy, swaying on his
feet, digested this information; and then did a very surprising thing.
Taking a deep breath, he drew himself up to his full five foot five; then
leaned forward, and spat violently and copiously all over the food.
"Baba, if that's in your top ten," Gibreel said in the taxi home, "don't
take me to the places you don't like so much."
" 'Minnamin, Gut mag alkan, Pern dirstan,'" Chamcha replied. "It
means, 'My darling, God makes hungry, the Devil thirsty.' Nabokov."
"Him again," Gibreel complained. "What bloody language?"
"He made it up. It's what Kinbote's Zemblan nurse tells him as a child.
In _Pale Fire_."
"_Perndirstan_," Farishta repeated. "Sounds like a country: Hell,
maybe. I give up, anyway. How are you supposed to read a man who
writes in a made-up lingo of his own?"
464
They were almost back at Allie's flat overlooking Brickhall Fields. "The
playwright Strindberg," Chamcha said, absently, as if following some
profound train of thought, "after two unhappy marriages, wedded a
famous and lovely twenty-year--old actress called Harriet Bosse. In the
_Dream_ she was a great Puck. He wrote for her, too: the part of
Eleanora in _Easter_. An 'angel of peace'. The young men went crazy
for her, and Strindberg, well, he got so jealous he almost lost his mind.
He tried to keep her locked up at home, far from the eyes of men. She
wanted to travel; he brought her travel books. It was like the old Cliff
Richard song: _Gonna lock her up in a trunk/so no big hunk/can steal
her away from me_."
Farishta's heavy head nodded in recognition. He had fallen into a kind
of reverie. "What happened?" he inquired as they reached their
destination. "She left him," Chamcha innocently declared. "She said
she could not reconcile him with the human race."
Alleluia Cone read, as she walked home from the Tube, her mother's
deliriously happy letter from Stanford, Calif. "If people tell you
happiness is unattainable," Alicja wrote in large, looping, back-leaning,
left-handed letters, "kindly point them in my direction. I'll put them
straight. I found it twice, the first time with your father, as you know,
the second with this kind, broad man whose face is the exact colour of
the oranges that grow all over these parts. Contentment, Allie. It beats
excitement. Try it, you'll like it." When she looked up, Allie saw
Maurice Wilson's ghost sitting atop a large copper beech-tree in his
usual woollen attire -- tam--o"--shanter, diamond — pattern Pringle
jersey, plus-- fours -- looking uncomfortably overdressed in the heat.
"I've no time for you now," she told him, and he shrugged. _I can wait_.
Her feet were bad again. She set her jaw and marched on.
465
Saladin Chamcha, concealed behind the very copper beech from which
Maurice Wilson's ghost was surveying Allie's painful progress, observed
Gibreel Farishta bursting out of the front door of the block of flats in
which he'd been waiting impatiently for her return; observed him red-
eyed and raving. The demons of jealousy were sitting on his shoulders,
and he was screaming out the same old song, wherethehell whothe
whatthe dont thinkyoucanpullthewool howdareyou bitchbitchbitch. It
appeared that Strindberg had succeeded where Jumpy (because absent)
had failed.
The watcher in the upper branches dematerialized; the other, with a
satisfied nod, strolled away down an avenue of shady, spreading trees.
The telephone calls which now began to be received, first at their
London residence and subsequently at a remote address in Dumfries
and Galloway, by both Allie and Gibreel, were not too frequent; then
again, they could not be termed infrequent. Nor were there too many
voices to be plausible; then again, there were quite enough. These were
not brief calls, such as those made by heavy breathers and other abusers
of the telephone network, but, conversely, they never lasted long
enough for the police, eavesdropping, to track them to their source.
Nor did the whole unsavoury episode last very long -- a mere matter of
three and a half weeks, after which the callers desisted forever; but it
might also be mentioned that it went on exactly as long as it needed to,
that is, until it had driven Gibreel Farishta to do to Allie Cone what he
had previously done to Saladin -- namely, the Unforgivable Thing.
It should be said that nobody, not Allie, not Gibreel, not even the
professional phone-tappers they brought in, ever suspected the calls of
being a single man's work; but for Saladin Chamcha, once renowned (if
only in somewhat specialist circles) as the Man of a Thousand Voices,
such a deception was a simple matter, entirely lacking in effort or risk.
466
In all, he was obliged to select (from his thousand voices and a voice) a
total of no more than thirty--nine.
When Allie answered, she heard unknown men murmuring intimate
secrets in her ear, strangers who seemed to know her body's most
remote recesses, faceless beings who gave evidence of having learned, by
experience, her choicest preferences among the myriad forms of love;
and once the attempts at tracing the calls had begun her humiliation
grew, because now she was unable simply to replace the receiver, but
had to stand and listen, hot in the face and cold along the spine,
making attempts (which didn't work) actually to prolong the calls.
Gibreel also got his share of voices: superb Byronic aristocrats boasting
of having "conquered Everest", sneering guttersnipes, unctuous best-
friend voices mingling warning and mockcommiseration, _a word to the
wise, how stupid can you, don't you know yet what she's, anything in
trousers, you poor moron, take it from a pal_. But one voice stood out
from the rest, the high soulful voice of a poet, one of the first voices
Gibreel heard and the one that got deepest under his skin; a voice that
spoke exclusively in rhyme, reciting doggerel verses of an understated
naivety, even innocence, which contrasted so greatly with the
masturbatory coarseness of most of the other callers that Gibreel soon
came to think of it as the most insidiously menacing of all.
_I like coffee, I like tea_,
_I like things you do with me_.
_Tell her that_, the voice swooned, and rang off. Another day it
returned with another jingle:
_I like butter, I like toast_,
You're the one I love the most .
467
_Give her that message, too; if you'd be so kind_. There was something
demonic, Gibreel decided, something profoundly immoral about
cloaking corruption in this greetings--card tum--ti-tum.
_Rosy apple, lemon tart_,
_Here's the name of my sweetheart_.
A ... 1 ... 1 ... Gibreel, in disgust and fear, banged down the receiver; and
trembled. After that the versifier stopped calling for a while; but his
was the voice Gibreel started waiting for, dreading its reappearance,
having perhaps accepted, at some level deeper than consciousness, that
this infernal, childlike evil was what would finish him off for good.
But O how easy it all turned out to be! How comfortably evil lodged in
those supple, infinitely flexible vocal cords, those puppetmaster's
strings! How surely it stepped out along the high wires of the telephone
system, poised as a barefoot acrobat; how confidently it entered the
victims' presence, as certain of its effect as a handsome man in a
perfectly tailored suit! And how carefully it bided its time, sending
forth every voice but the voice that would deliver the coup de grace --
for Saladin, too, had understood the doggerel's special potency -- deep
voices and squeaky voices, slow ones, quick ones, sad and cheerful,
aggression--laden and shy. One by one, they dripped into Gibreel's ears,
weakening his hold on the real world, drawing him little by little into
their deceitful web, so that little by little their obscene, invented
women began to coat the real woman like a viscous, green film, and in
spite of his protestations to the contrary he started slipping away from
her; and then it was time for the return of the little, satanic verses that
made him mad.
468
_Roses are red, violets are blue_,
_Sugar never tasted sweet as you_.
_Pass it on_. He returned as innocent as ever, giving birth to a turmoil
of butterflies in Gibreel's knotting stomach. After that the rhymes came
thick and fast. They could have the smuttiness of the school
playground:
_When she's down at Waterloo_
_She don't wear no yes she do_
_When she's up at Leicester Square_
_She don't wear no underwear_;
or, once or twice, the rhythm of a cheerleader's chant.
_Knickerknacker, firecracker_,
_Sis! Boom! Bah!_
_Alleluia! Alleluia!_
_Rah! Rah! Rah!_
And lastly, when they had returned to London, and Allie was absent at
the ceremonial opening of a freezer food mart in Hounslow, the last
rhyme.
_Violets are blue, roses are red_,
_I've got her right here in my bed_.
_Goodbye, sucker_.
469
Dialling tone.
Alleluia Cone returned to find Gibreel gone, and in the vandalized
silence of her apartment she determined that this time she would not
have him back, no matter in what sorry condition or how wheedlingly
he came crawling to her, pleading for forgiveness and for love; because
before he left he had wrought a terrible vengeance upon her, destroying
every one of the surrogate Himalayas she had collected over the years,
thawing the iceEverest she kept in her freezer, pulling down and ripping
to shreds the parachute-silk peaks that rose above her bed, and hacking
to pieces (he'd used the small axe she kept with the fire extinguisher in
the broom cupboard) the priceless whittled memento of her conquest of
Chomolungma, given her by Pemba the sherpa, as a warning as well as a
commemoration. _To Ali Bibi. We u"ere luck. Not to try again_.
She flung open sash windows and screamed abuse at the innocent Fields
beneath. "Die slowly! Burn in hell!"
Then, weeping, she rang Saladin Chamcha to tell him the bad news.
Mr. John Maslama, owner of the Hot Wax nightclub, the record chain of
the same name, and of "Fair Winds", the legendary store where you
could get yourself the finest horns -- clarinets, saxophones, trombones -
- that a person could find to blow in the whole of London town, was a
busy man, so he would always ascribe to the intervention of Divine
Providence the happy chance that caused him to be present in the
trumpet store when the Archangel of God walked in with thunder and
lightning sitting like laurels upon his noble brow. Being a practical
businessman, Mr. Maslama had up to this point concealed from his
employees his extracurricular work as the chief herald of the returned
470
Celestial and Semi-Godlike Being, sticking posters in his shopwindows
only when he was sure he was unobserved, neglecting to sign the display
advertisements he bought in newspapers and magazines at considerable
personal expense, proclaiming the imminent Glory of the Coming of the
Lord. He issued press releases through a public relations subsidiary of
the Valance agency, asking that his own anonymity be guarded
carefully. "Our client is in a position to state," these releases -- which
enjoyed, for a time, an amused vogue among Fleet Street diarists --
cryptically announced, "that his eyes have seen the Glory referred to
above. Gibreel is among us at this moment, somewhere in the inner city
of London -- probably in Camden, Brickhall, Tower Hamlets or Hackney
-- and he will reveal himself soon, perhaps within days or weeks." -- All
of this was obscure to the three tall, languid, male attendants in the
Fair Winds store (Maslama refused to employ women sales assistants
here; "my motto," he was fond of saying, "is that nobody trusts a
female to help him with his horn"); which was why none of them could
believe their eyes when their hard-nosed employer suddenly underwent
a complete change of personality, and rushed over to this wild,
unshaven stranger as if he were God Almighty -- with his two-tone
patent leather shoes, Armani suit and slicked down Robert de Niro hair
above proliferating eyebrows, Maslama didn't look the crawling type,
but that's what he was _doing_, all right, on his goddamn _belly_,
pushing his staff aside, I'll attend to the gentleman myself_, bowing
and scraping, walking backwards, would you believe? -- Anyway, the
stranger had this _fat money-belt_ under his shirt and started hauling
out numbers of high-denomination notes; he pointed at a trumpet on a
high shelf, _that's the one_, just like that, hardly looked at it, and Mr.
Maslama was up the ladder _pronto_, I"ll— get--it— I — said— I"ll--get— it,
and now the truly amazing part, he tried to refuse payment, Maslama!,
it was no no _sir_ no charge _sir_, but the stranger paid anyway,
stuffing the notes into Maslama's upper jacket-pocket as if he were
some sort of _bellhop_, you had to be there, and last of all the customer
turns to the whole store and yells at the top of his voice, _I am the right
471
hand of God_. -- Straight up, you wouldn't credit it, the bloody day of
judgment was at hand. -- Maslama was right out of it after that, well
shaken he was, he actually fell to his actual knees. -- Then the stranger
held the trumpet up over his head and shouted _I name this trumpet
Azraeel, the Last Trump, the Exterminator of Men!_ -- and we just
stood there, I tell you, turned to stone, because all around the fucking
insane, _certifiable_ bastard's head there was this bright glow, you
know?, streaming out, like, from a point behind his head.
A halo.
_Say what you like_, the three shop-attendants afterwards repeated to
anyone who would listen, _say what you like, but we saw what we saw_.
The death of Dr. Uhuru Simba, formerly Sylvester Roberts, while in
custody awaiting trial, was described by the Brickhall constabulary's
community liaison officer, a certain Inspector Stephen Kinch, as "a
million--to--one shot". It appeared that Dr. Simba had been
experiencing a nightmare so terrifying that it had caused him to scream
piercingly in his sleep, attracting the immediate attention of the two
duty officers. These gentlemen, rushing to his cell, arrived in time to
see the still-- sleeping form of the gigantic man literally lift off its bunk
under the malign influence of the dream and plunge to the floor. A
loud, snap was heard by both officers; it was the sound of Dr. Uhuru
Simba's neck breaking. Death had been instantaneous.
The dead man's minuscule mother, Antoinette Roberts, standing in a
cheap black hat and dress on the back of her younger son's pick-up
truck, the veil of mourning pushed defiantly back off her face, was not
slow to seize upon Inspector Kinch's words and hurl them back into his
472
florid, loose-chinned, impotent face, whose hangdog expression bore
witness to the humiliation of being referred to by his brother officers as
_niggerjimmy_ and, worse, _mushroom_, meaning that he was kept
permanently in the dark, and from time to time -- for example in the
present regrettable circumstances -- people threw shit all over him. "I
want you to understand," Mrs. Roberts declaimed to the sizeable crowd
that had gathered angrily outside the High Street police station, "that
these people are gambling with our lives. They are laying odds on our
chances of survival. I want you all to consider what that means in terms
of their respect for us as human beings." And Hanif Johnson, as Uhuru
Simba's solicitor, added his own clarification from Walcott Roberts's
pick-up truck, pointing out that his client's alleged fatal plunge had
been from the lower of the two bunks in his cell; that in an age of
extreme overcrowding in the country's lock--ups it was unusual, to say
the least, that the other bunk should have been unoccupied, ensuring
that there were no witnesses to the death except for prison officers; and
that a nightmare was by no means the only possible explanation for the
screams of a black man in the hands of the custodial authorities. In his
concluding remarks, afterwards termed "inflammatory and
unprofessional" by Inspector Kinch, Hanif linked the community
liaison officer's words to those of the notorious racist John Kingsley
Read, who had once responded to news of a black man's death with the
slogan, "One down; one million to go." The crowd murmured and
bubbled; it was a hot and malicious day. "Stay hot," Simba's brother
Walcott cried out to the assembly. "Don't anybody cool off. Maintain
your rage."
As Simba had in effect already been tried and convicted in what he had
once called the "rainbow press -- red as rags, yellow as streaks, blue as
movies, green as slime", his end struck many white people as rough
justice, a murderous monster's retributive fall. But in another court,
silent and black, he had received an entirely more favourable judgment,
and these differing estimations of the deceased moved, in the aftermath
473
of his death, on to the city streets, and fermented in the unending
tropical heat. The "rainbow press" was full of Simba's support for
Qazhafi, Khomeini, Louis Farrakhan; while in the streets of Brickhall,
young men and women maintained, and fanned, the slow flame of their
anger, a shadow-flame, but one capable of blotting out the light.
Two nights later, behind the Charringtons Brewery in Tower Hamlets,
the "Granny Ripper" struck again. And the night after that, an old
woman was murdered near the adventure playground in Victoria Park,
Hackney; once again, the Ripper's hideous "signature" -- the ritual
arrangement of the internal organs around the victim's body, whose
precise configuration had never been made public -- had been added to
the crime. When Inspector Kinch, looking somewhat ragged at the
edges, appeared on television to propound the extraordinary theory that
a "copycat killer" had somehow discovered the trademark which had
been so carefully concealed for so long, and had therefore taken up the
mantle which the late Uhuru Simba had let drop, -- then the
Commissioner of Police also deemed it wise, as a precautionary
measure, to quadruple the police presence on the streets of Brickhall,
and to hold such large numbers of police in reserve that it proved
necessary to cancel the capital's football programme for the weekend.
And, in truth, tempers were fraying all over Uhuru Simba's old patch;
Hanif Johnson issued a statement to the effect that the increased police
presence was "provocative and incendiary", and at the Shaandaar and
the Pagal Khana there began to assemble groups of young blacks and
Asians determined to confront the cruising panda cars. At the Hot Wax,
the effigy chosen for _meltdown_ was none other than the perspiring
and already deliquescent figure of the community liaison officer. And
the temperature continued, inexorably, to rise.
Violent incidents began to occur more frequently: attacks on black
families on council estates, harassment of black schoolchildren on their
way home, brawls in pubs. At the Pagal Khana a rat-faced youth and
474
three of his cronies spat over many people's food; as a result of the
ensuing affray three Bengali waiters were charged with assault and the
causing of actual bodily harm; the expectorating quartet was not,
however, detained. Stories of police brutality, of black youths hauled
swiftly into unmarked cars and vans belonging to the special patrol
groups and flung out, equally discreetly, covered in cuts and bruises,
spread throughout the communities. Self-defence patrols of young
Sikh, Bengali and Afro-Caribbean males -- described by their political
opponents as _vigilante groups_ -- began to roam the borough, on foot
and in old Ford Zodiacs and Cortinas, determined not to "take it lying
down". Hanif Johnson told his live-in lover, Mishal Sufyan, that in his
opinion one more Ripper killing would light the fuse. "That killer's not
just crowing about being free," he said. "He's laughing about Simba's
death as well, and that's what the people can't stomach."
Down these simmering streets, one unseasonally humid night, came
Gibreel Farishta, blowing his golden horn.
At eight o"clock that evening, a Saturday, Pamela Chamcha stood with
Jumpy Joshi -- who had refused to let her go unaccompanied -- next to
the Photo-Me machine in a corner of the main concourse of Euston
station, feeling ridiculously conspiratorial. At eight-fifteen she was
approached by a wiry young man who seemed taller than she
remembered him; following him without a word, she and Jumpy got
into his battered blue pick-up truck and were driven to a tiny flat above
an off-licence in Railton Road, Brixton, where Walcott Roberts
introduced them to his mother, Antoinette. The three men whom
Pamela afterwards thought of as Haitians for what she recognized to be
stereotypical reasons were not introduced. "Have a glass of ginger
wine," Antoinette Roberts commanded. "Good for the baby, too."
475
When Walcott had done the honours Mrs. Roberts, looking lost in a
voluminous and threadbare armchair (her surprisingly pale legs,
matchstick--thin, emerging from beneath her black dress to end in
mutinous, pink ankle--socks and sensible lace--ups, failed by some
distance to reach the floor), got to business. "These gentlemen were
colleagues of my boy," she said. "It turns out that the probable reason
for his murder was the work he was doing on a subject which I am told
is also of interest to you. We believe the time has come to work more
formally, through the channels you represent." Here one of the three
silent "Haitians" handed Pamela a red plastic briefcase. "It contains,"
Mrs. Roberts mildly explained, "extensive evidence of the existence of
witches' covens throughout the Metropolitan Police."
Walcott stood up. "We should go now," he said firmly. "Please." Pamela
and Jumpy rose. Mrs. Roberts nodded vaguely, absently, cracking the
joints of her loose-skinned hands. "Goodbye," Pamela said, and offered
conventional regrets. "Girl, don't waste breath," Mrs. Roberts broke in.
"Just nail me those warlocks. Nail them through the _heart_."
Walcott Roberts dropped them in Notting Hill at ten. Jumpy was
coughing badly and complaining of the pains in the head that had
recurred a number of times since his injuries at Shepperton, but when
Pamela admitted to being nervous at possessing the only copy of the
explosive documents in the plastic briefcase, Jumpy once again insisted
on accompanying her to the Brickhall community relations council's
offices, where she planned to make photocopies to distribute to a
number of trusted friends and colleagues. So it was that at ten--fifteen
they were in Pamela's beloved MG, heading east across the city, into the
gathering storm. An old, blue Mercedes panel van followed them, as it
had followed Walcott's pick-up truck; that is, without being noticed.
476
Fifteen minutes earlier, a patrol group of seven large young Sikhs
jammed into a Vauxhall Cavalier had been driving over the Malaya
Crescent canal bridge in southern Brickhall. Hearing a cry from the
towpath under the bridge, and hurrying to the scene, they found a
bland, pale man of medium height and build, fair hair flopping forward
over hazel eyes, leaping to his feet, scalpel in hand, and rushing away
from the body of an old woman whose blue wig had fallen off and lay
floating like a jellyfish in the canal. The young Sikhs easily caught up
with and overpowered the running man.
By eleven pm the news of the mass murderer's capture had penetrated
every cranny of the borough, accompanied by a slew of rumours: the
police had been reluctant to charge the maniac, the patrol members had
been detained for questioning, a coverup was being planned. Crowds
began to gather on street corners, and as the pubs emptied a series of
fights broke out. There was some damage to property: three cars had
their windows smashed, a video store was looted, a few bricks were
thrown. It was at this point, at half--past eleven on a Saturday night,
with the clubs and dance-halls beginning to yield up their excited,
highly charged populations, that the divisional superintendent of
police, in consultation with higher authority, declared that riot
conditions now existed in central Brickhall, and unleashed the full
might of the Metropolitan Police against the "rioters".
Also at this point, Saladin Chamcha, who had been dining with Allie
Cone at her apartment overlooking Brickhall Fields, keeping up
appearances, sympathizing, murmuring encouraging insincerities,
emerged into the night; found a _testudo_ of helmeted men with plastic
shields at the ready moving towards him across the Fields at a steady,
inexorable trot; witnessed the arrival overhead of giant, locust-
swarming helicopters from which light was falling like heavy rain; saw
the advance of the water cannons; and, obeying an irresistible primal
477
reflex, turned tail and ran, not knowing that he was going the wron^
way, running full speed in the direction of the Shaandaar.
Television cameras arrive just in time for the raid on Club Hot Wax.
This is what a television camera sees: less gifted than the human eye, its
night vision is limited to what klieg lights will show. A helicopter
hovers over the nightclub, urinating light in long golden streams; the
camera understands this image. The machine of state bearing down
upon its enemies. -- And now there's a camera in the sky; a news editor
somewhere has sanctioned the cost of aerial photography, and from
another helicopter a news team is _shooting down_. No attempt is
made to chase this helicopter away. The noise of rotor blades drowns
the noise of the crowd. In this respect, again, video recording
equipment is less sensitive than, in this case, the human ear.
-- Cut. -- A man lit by a sun-gun speaks rapidly into a microphone.
Behind him there is a disorderment of shadows. But between the
reporter and the disordered shadow--lands there stands a wall: men in
riot helmets, carrying shields. The reporter speaks gravely; petrolbombs
plasticbullets policeinjuries water-- cannon looting, confining himself,
of course, to facts. But the camera sees what he does not say. A camera
is a thing easily broken or purloined; its fragility makes it fastidious. A
camera requires law, order, the thin blue line. Seeking to preserve itself,
it remains behind the shielding wall, observing the shadow-lands from
afar, and of course from above: that is, it chooses sides.
-- Cut. -- Sun-guns illuminate a new face, saggy-jowled, flushed. This
face is named: sub--titled words appear across his tunic. _Inspector
Stephen Kinch_. The camera sees him for what he is: a good man in an
impossible job. A father, a man who likes his pint. He speaks: cannot--
tolerate--no-- go -areas better-protection--required-for--policemen see--
478
the--plastic--riot--shields--catching--fire. He refers to organized crime,
political agitators, bomb-- factories, drugs. "We understand some of
these kids may feel they have grievances but we will not and cannot be
the whipping boys of society." Emboldened by the lights and the
patient, silent lenses, he goes further. These kids don't know how lucky
they are, he suggests. They should consult their kith and kin. Africa,
Asia, the Caribbean: now those are places with real problems. Those are
places where people might have grievances worth respecting. Things
aren't so bad here, not by a long chalk; no slaughters here, no torture,
no military coups. People should value what they've got before they lose
it. Ours always was a peaceful land, he says. Our industrious island
race. -- Behind him, the camera sees stretchers, ambulances, pain. -- It
sees strange humanoid shapes being hauled up from the bowels of the
Club Hot Wax, and recognizes the effigies of the mighty. Inspector
Kinch explains. They cook them in an oven down there, they call it fun,
I wouldn't call it that myself. -- The camera observes the wax models
with distaste. -- Is there not something _witchy_ about them,
something cannibalistic, an unwholesome smell? Have _black arts_
been practised here? -- The camera sees broken windows. It sees
something burning in the middle distance: a car, a shop. It cannot
understand, or demonstrate, what any of this achieves. These people are
burning their own streets.
-- Cut. -- Here is a brightly lit video store. Several sets have been left on
in the windows; the camera, most delirious of narcissists, watches TV,
creating, for an instant, an infinite recession of television sets,
diminishing to a point. -- Cut. -- Here is a serious head bathed in light:
a studio discussion. The head is talking about _outlaws_. Billy the Kid,
Ned Kelly: these were men who stoodfor as well as _against_. Modern
mass-murderers, lacking this heroic dimension, are no more than sick,
damaged beings, utterly blank as personalities, their crimes
distinguished by an attention to procedure, to methodology -- let's say
_ritual_ -- driven, perhaps, by the nonentity's longing to be noticed, to
479
rise out of the. ruck and become, for a moment, a star. -- Or by a kind
of transposed deathwish: to kill the beloved and so destroy the self. --
_Which is the Granny Ripper?_ a questioner asks. _And what about
Jack?_ -- The true outlaw, the head insists, is a dark mirror-image of the
hero. -- _These rioters, perhaps?_ comes the challenge. _Aren't you in
danger of glamorizing, of "legitimizing"?_ -- The head shakes, laments
the materialism of modern youth. Looting video stores is not what the
head has been talking about. -- _But what about the old-timers, then?
Butch Cassidy, the James brothers, Captain Moonlight, the Kelly gang.
They all robbed -- did they not? -- banks_. -- Cut. -- Later that night, the
camera will return to this shop-window. The television sets will be
missing.
-- From the air, the camera watches the entrance to Club Hot Wax. Now
the police have finished with wax effigies and are bringing out real
human beings. The camera homes in on the arrested persons: a tall
albino man; a man in an Armani suit, looking like a dark mirror-image
of de Niro; a young girl of -- what? -- fourteen, fifteen? -- a sullen young
man of twenty or thereabouts. No names are titled; the camera does not
know these faces. Gradually, however, the _facts_ emerge. The club DJ,
Sewsunker Ram, known as "Pinkwalla", and its proprietor, Mr. John
Maslama, are to be charged with running a large-scale narcotics
operation -- crack, brown sugar, hashish, cocaine. The man arrested
with them, an employee at Maslama's nearby "Fair Winds" music store,
is the registered owner of a van in which an unspecified quantity of
"hard drugs" has been discovered; also numbers of "hot" video
recorders. The young girl's name is Anahita Sufyan; she is under-age, is
said to have been drinking heavily, and, it is hinted, having sex with at
least one of the three arrested men. She is further reported to have a
history of truancy and association with known criminal types: a
delinquent, clearly. -- An illuminated journalist will offer the nation
these titbits many hours after the event, but the news is already running
480
wild in the streets: Pinkwalla! -- And the _Wax_: they smashed the place
up -- _totalled_ it! -- Now it's _war_.
This happens, however -- as does a great deal else -- in places which the
camera cannot see.
Gibreel:
moves as if through a dream, because after days of wandering the city
without eating or sleeping, with the trumpet named Azraeel tucked
safely in a pocket of his greatcoat, he no longer recognizes the
distinction between the waking and dreaming states; -- he understands
now something of what omnipresence must be like, because he is
moving through several stories at once, there is a Gibreel who mourns
his betrayal by Alleluia Cone, and a Gibreel hovering over the death-bed
of a Prophet, and a Gibreel watching in secret over the progress of a
pilgrimage to the sea, waiting for the moment at which he will reveal
himself, and a Gibreel who feels, more powerfully every day, the will of
the adversary, drawing him ever closer, leading him towards their final
embrace: the subtle, deceiving adversary, who has taken the face of his
friend, of Saladin his truest friend, in order to lull him into lowering
his guard. And there is a Gibreel who walks down the streets of London,
trying to understand the will of God.
Is he to be the agent of God's wrath?
Or of his love?
Is he vengeance or forgiveness? Should the fatal trumpet remain in his
pocket, or should he take it out and blow?
481
(I'm giving him no instructions. I, too, am interested in his choices -- in
the result of his wrestling match. Character vs destiny: a free-style bout.
Two falls, two submissions or a knockout will decide.)
Wrestling, through his many stories, he proceeds.
There are times when he aches for her, Alleluia, her very name an
exaltation; but then he remembers the diabolic verses, and turns his
thoughts away. The horn in his pocket demands to be blown; but he
restrains himself. Now is not the time. Searching for clues -- _what is to
be done?_ -- he stalks the city streets.
Somewhere he sees a television set through an evening window. There is
a woman's head on the screen, a famous "presenter", being interviewed
by an equally famous, twinkling Irish "host". -- What would be the
worst thing you could imagine? -- Oh, I think, I'm sure, it would be, oh,
_yes_: to be alone on Christmas Eve. You'd really have to face yourself,
wouldn't you, you'd look into a harsh mirror and ask yourself, _is this
all there is?_ -- Gibreel, alone, not knowing the date, walks on. In the
mirror, the adversary approaches at the same pace as his own,
beckoning, stretching out his arms.
The city sends him messages. Here, it says, is where the Dutch king
decided to live when he came over three centuries ago. In those days
this was out of town, a village, set in green English fields. But when the
King arrived to set up house, London squares sprang up amid the fields,
red-brick buildings with Dutch crenellations rising against the sky, so
that his courtiers might have places in which to reside. Not all migrants
are powerless, the still-standing edifices whisper. They impose their
needs on their new earth, bringing their own coherence to the new-
found land, imagining it afresh. But look out, the city warns.
Incoherence, too, must have its day. Riding in the parkland in which
he'd chosen to live -- which he'd civilized -- William III was thrown
482
by his horse, fell hard against the recalcitrant ground, and broke his
royal neck.
Some days he finds himself among walking corpses, great crowds of the
dead, all of them refusing to admit they're done for, corpses
mutinously continuing to behave like living people, shopping, catching
buses, flirting, going home to make love, smoking cigarettes. _But
you're dead_, he shouts at them. _Zombies, get into your graves_. They
ignore him, or laugh, or look embarrassed, or menace him with their
fists. He falls silent, and hurries on.
The city becomes vague, amorphous. It is becoming impossible to
describe the world. Pilgrimage, prophet, adversary merge, fade into
mists, emerge. As does she: Allie, Al--Lat. _She is the exalted bird.
Greatly to be desired_. He remembers now: she told him, long ago,
about Jumpy's poetry. _He's trying to make a collection. A book_. The
thumb--sucking artist with his infernal views. A book is a product of a
pact with the Devil that inverts the Faustian contract, he'd told Allie.
Dr. Faustus sacrificed eternity in return for two dozen years of power;
the writer agrees to the ruination of his life, and gains (but only if he's
lucky) maybe not eternity, but posterity, at least. Either way (this was
Jumpy's point) it's the Devil who wins.
What does a poet write? Verses. What jingle-jangles in Gibreel's brain?
Verses. What broke his heart? Verses and again verses.
The trumpet, Azraeel, calls out from a greatcoat pocket: _Pick me up!
Yesyesyes: the Trump. To hell with it all, the whole sorry mess: just puff
up your cheeks and root y-toot-toot. Come on, it's party time_.
How hot it is: steamy, close, intolerable. This is no Proper London: not
this improper city. Airstrip One, Mahagonny, Alphaville. He wanders
through a confusion of languages. Babel: a contraction of the Assyrian
"babilu". "The gate of God." Babylondon.
483
Where's this?
-- Yes. -- He meanders, one night, behind the cathedrals of the
Industrial Revolution, the railway termini of north London.
Anonymous King's Cross, the bat-like menace of the St Pancras tower,
the red-and-black gas-holders inflating and deflating like giant iron
lungs. Where once in battle Queen Boudicca fell, Gibreel Farishta
wrestles with himself.
The Goodsway: -- but O what succulent goods lounge in doorways and
under tungsten lamps, what delicacies are on offer in that way! --
Swinging handbags, calling out, silver-skirted, wearing fish-net tights:
these are not only young goods (average age thirteen to fifteen) but also
cheap. They have short, identical histories: all have babies stashed away
somewhere, all have been thrown out of their homes by irate,
puritanical parents, none of them are white. Pimps with knives take
ninety per cent of their earnings. Goods are only goods, after all,
especially when they're trash.
-- Gibreel Farishta in the Goodsway is hailed from shadows and lamps;
and quickens, at first, his pace. _What's this to do with me? Bloody
pussies-galore_. But then he slows and stops, hearing something else
calling to him from lamps and shadows, some need, some wordless plea,
hidden just under the tinny voices of tenpound tarts. His footsteps slow
down, then halt. He is held by their desires. _For what?_ They are
moving towards him now, drawn to him like fishes on unseen hooks. As
they near him their walks change, their hips lose their swagger, their
faces start looking their age, in spite of all the make--up. When they
reach him, they kneel. _Who do you say that I am?_ he asks, and wants
to add: _I know your names. I met you once before, elsewhere, behind a
curtain: Twelve of you then as now. Ayesha, Hafsah, Ram lah, Sawdah,
Zainab, Zainab, Maimunah, Safia, Juwairiyah, Umm Salamah the
Makhzumite, Rehana the Jew, and the beautiful Mary the Copt_.
Silently, they remain on their knees. Their wishes are made known to
484
him without words. _What is an archangel but a puppet? Kathputli,
marionette. The faithful bend us to their will. We are forces of nature
and they, our masters. Mistresses, too_. The heaviness in his limbs, the
heat, and in his ears a buzzing like bees on summer afternoons. It
would be easy to faint.
He does not faint.
He stands among the kneeling children, waiting for the pimps.
And when they come, he at last takes out, and presses to his lips, his
unquiet horn: the exterminator, Azraeel.
After the stream of fire has emerged from the mouth of his golden
trumpet and consumed the approaching men, wrapping them in a
cocoon of flame, unmaking them so completely that not even their
shoes remain sizzling on the sidewalk, Gibreel understands.
He is walking again, leaving behind him the gratitude of the whores,
heading in the direction of the borough of Brickhall, Azraeel once more
in his capacious pocket. Things are becoming clear.
He is the Archangel Gibreel, the angel of the Recitation, with the power
of revelation in his hands. He can reach into the breasts of men and
women, pick out the desires of their inmost hearts, and make them real.
He is the quencher of desires, the slaker of lusts, the fulfiller of dreams.
He is the genie of the lamp, and his master is the Roc.
What desires, what imperatives are in the midnight air? He breathes
them in. -- And nods, so be it, yes. -- Let it be fire. This is a city that has
cleansed itself in flame, purged itself by burning down to the ground.
485
Fire, falling fire. "This is the judgment of God in his wrath," Gib-- reel
Farishta proclaims to the riotous night, "that men be granted their
heart's desires, and that they be by them consumed."
Low-cost high-rise housing enfolds him. _Nigger eat white man's shit_,
suggest the unoriginal walls. The buildings have names: "Isandhlwana",
"Rorke's Drift". But a revisionist enterprise is underway, for two of the
four towers have been renamed, and bear, now, the names "Mandela"
and "Toussaintl"Ouverture". --The towers stand up on stilts, and in the
concrete formlessness beneath and between them there is the howling
of a perpetual wind, and the eddying of debris: derelict kitchen units,
deflated bicycle tyres, shards of broken doors, dolls' legs, vegetable
refuse extracted from plastic disposal bags by hungry cats and dogs,
fastfood packets, rolling cans, shattered job prospects, abandoned
hopes, lost illusions, expended angers, accumulated bitterness, vomited
fear, and a rusting bath. He stands motionless while small groups of
residents rush past in different directions. Some (not all) are carrying
weapons. Clubs, bottles, knives. All of the groups contain white
youngsters as well as black. He raises his trumpet to his lips and begins
to play.
Little buds of flame spring up on the concrete, fuelled by the discarded
heaps of possessions and dreams. There is a little, rotting pile of envy:
it burns greenly in the night. The fires are every colour of the rainbow,
and not all of them need fuel. He blows the little fire-flowers out of his
horn and they dance upon the concrete, needing neither combustible
materials nor roots. Here, a pink one! There, what would be nice?, I
know: a silver rose. -- And now the buds are blossoming into bushes,
they are climbing like creepers up the sides of the towers, they reach out
towards their neighbours, forming hedges of multicoloured flame. It is
like watching a luminous garden, its growth accelerated many
thousands of times, a garden blossoming, flourishing, becoming
overgrown, tangled, becoming impenetrable, a garden of dense
486
intertwined chimeras, rivalling in its own incandescent fashion the
thornwood that sprang up around the palace of the sleeping beauty in
another fairy-tale, long ago.
But here, there is no beauty, sleeping within. There is Gibreel Farishta,
walking in a world of fire. In the High Street he sees houses built of
flame, with walls of fire, and flames like gathered curtains hanging at
the windows. -- And there are men and women with fiery skins strolling,
running, milling around him, dressed in coats of fire. The Street has
become red hot, molten, a river the colour of blood. -- All, all is ablaze
as he toots his merry horn, _giving the people what they want_, the hair
and teeth of the citizenry are smoking and red, glass burns, and birds
fly overhead on blazing wings.
The adversary is very close. The adversary is a magnet, is a whirlpool's
eye, is the irresistible centre of a black hole, his gravitational force
creating an event horizon from which neither Gibreel, nor light, can
escape. _This way_, the adversary calls. _I'm over here_.
Not a palace, but only a cafe. And in the rooms above, a bed and
breakfast joint. No sleeping princess, but a disappointed woman,
overpowered by smoke, lies unconscious here; and beside her, on the
floor beside their bed, and likewise unconscious, her husband, the
Mecca-returned ex-schoolteacher, Sufyan. -- While, elsewhere in the
burning Shaandaar, faceless persons stand at windows waving piteously
for help, being unable (no mouths) to scream.
The adversary: there he blows!
Silhouetted against the backdrop of the ignited Shaandaar Cafe, see,
that's the very fellow!
Azraeel leaps unbidden into Farishta's hand.
487
Even an archangel may experience a revelation, and when Gibreel
catches, for the most fleeting of instants, Saladin Chamcha's eye, --
then in that fractional and infinite moment the veils are ripped away
from his sight, -- he sees himself walking with Chamcha in Brickhall
Fields, lost in a rhapsody, revealing the most intimate secrets of his
lovemaking with Alleluia Cone, -- those same secrets which afterwards
were whispered into telephones by a host of evil voices, -- beneath all of
which Gibreel now discerns the unifying talent of the adversary, who
could be guttural and high, who insulted and ingratiated, who was both
insistent and shy, who was prosaic, -- yes! -- and versifying, too. -- And
now, at last, Gibreel Farishta recognizes for the first time that the
adversary has not simply adopted Chamcha's features as a disguise; --
nor is this any case of paranormal possession, of body-snatching by an
invader up from Hell; that, in short, the evil is not external to Saladin,
but springs from some recess of his own true nature, that it has been
spreading through his selfhood like a cancer, erasing what was good in
him, wiping out his spirit, -- and doing so with many deceptive feints
and dodges, seeming at times to recede; while, in fact, during the
illusion of remission, under cover of it, so to speak, it continued
perniciously to spread; -- and now, no doubt, it has filled him up; now
there is nothing left of Saladin but this, the dark fire of evil in his soul,
consuming him as wholly as the other fire, multicoloured and
engulfing, is devouring the screaming city. Truly these are "most
horrid, malicious, bloody flames, not like the fine flame of an ordinary
fire".
The fire is an arch across the sky. Saladin Chamcha, the adversary, who
is also _Spoono, my old Chumch_, has disappeared into the doorway of
the Shaandaar Cafe. This is the maw of the black hole; the horizon
closes around it, all other possibilities fade, the universe shrinks to this
solitary and irresistible point. Blowing a great blast on his trumpet,
Gibreel plunges through the open door.
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The building occupied by the Brickhall community relations council
was a single--storey monster in purple brick with bulletproof windows,
a bunker-like creation of the 1960s, when such lines were considered
sleek. It was not an easy building to enter; the door had been fitted with
an entryphone and opened on to a narrow alley down one side of the
building which ended at a second, also security-locked, door. There was
also a burglar alarm.
This alarm, it afterwards transpired, had been switched off, probably by
the two persons, one male, one female, who had effected an entry with
the assistance of a key. It was officially suggested that these persons
had been bent on an act of sabotage, an "inside job", since one of them,
the dead woman, had in fact been an employee of the organization
whose offices these were. The reasons for the crime remained obscure,
and as the miscreants had perished in the blaze, it was unlikely that
they would ever come to light. An "own goal" remained, however, the
most probable explanation.
A tragic affair; the dead woman had been heavily pregnant.
Inspector Stephen Kinch, issuing the statement in which these facts
were stated, made a "linkage" between the fire at the Brickhall CRC and
that at the Shaandaar Cafe, where the second dead person, the male,
had been a semi-permanent resident. It was possible that the man had
been the real firebug and the woman, who was his mistress although
married to and still cohabiting with another man, had been no more
than his dupe. Political motives -- both parties were well known for
their radical views -- could not be discounted, though such was the
muddiness of the water in the far-left groupuscules they frequented
that it would be hard ever to get a clear picture of what such motives
might have been. It was also possible that the two crimes, even if
committed by the same man, could have had different motivations.
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Possibly the man was simply the hired criminal, burning down the
Shaandaar for the insurance money at the behest of the now-deceased
owners, and torching the CRC at the behest of his lover, perhaps on
account of some intra--office vendetta?
That the burning of the CRC was an act of arson was beyond doubt.
Quantities of petrol had been poured over desks, papers, curtains.
"Many people do not understand how quickly a petrol fire spreads,"
Inspector Kinch stated to scribbling journalists. The corpses, which had
been so badly burned that dental records had been required for
identification purposes, had been found in the photocopying room.
"That's all we have." The end.
I have more.
I have certain questions, anyhow. -- About, for instance, an unmarked
blue Mercedes panel van, which followed Walcott Roberts's pick-up
truck, and then Pamela Chamcha's MG. -- About the men who emerged
from this van, their faces behind Hallowe"en masks, and forced their
way into the CRC offices just as Pamela unlocked the outer door. --
About what really happened inside those offices, because purple brick
and bulletproof glass cannot easily be penetrated by the human eye. --
And about, finally, the whereabouts of a red plastic briefcase, and the
documents it contains.
Inspector Kinch? Are you there?
No. He's gone. He has no answers for me.
Here is Mr. Saladin Chamcha, in the camel coat with the silk collar,
running down the High Street like some cheap crook. -- The same,
terrible Mr. Chamcha who has just spent his evening in the company of
a distraught Alleluia Cone, without feeling a flicker of remorse. -- "I
490
look down towards his feet," Othello said of Iago, "but that's a fable."
Nor is Chamcha fabulous any more; his humanity is sufficient form and
explanation for his deed. He has destroyed what he is not and cannot
be; has taken revenge, returning treason for treason; and has done so by
exploiting his enemy's weakness, bruising his unprotected heel. -- There
is satisfaction in this. -- Still, here is Mr. Chamcha, running. The world
is full of anger and event. Things hang in the balance. A building burns.
_Boomba_, pounds his heart. _Doomba, boomba, dadoom_.
Now he sees the Shaandaar, on fire; and comes to a skidding halt. He
has a constricted chest; -- _badoomba!_ -- and there's a pain in his left
arm. He doesn't notice; is staring at the burning building.
And sees Gibreel Farishta.
And turns; and runs inside.
"Mishal! Sufyan! Hind!" cries evil Mr. Chamcha. The ground floor is
not as yet ablaze. He flings open the door to the stairs, and a scalding,
pestilential wind drives him back. _Dragon's breath_, he thinks. The
landing is on fire; the flames reach in sheets from floor to ceiling. No
possibility of advance.
"Anybody?" screams Saladin Chamcha. "Is anybody there?" But the
dragon roars louder than he can shout.
Something invisible kicks him in the chest, sends him toppling
backwards, on to the cafe floor, amid the empty tables. _Doom_, sings
his heart. _Take this. And this_.
There is a noise above his head like the scurrying of a billion rats,
spectral rodents following a ghostly piper. He looks up: the ceiling is on
fire. He finds he cannot stand. As he watches, a section of the ceiling
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detaches itself, and he sees the segment of beam falling towards him.
He crosses his arms in feeble self-- defence.
The beam pins him to the floor, breaking both his arms. His chest is
full of pain. The world recedes. Breathing is hard. He can't speak. He is
the Man of a Thousand Voices, and there isn't one left.
Gibreel Farishta, holding Azraeel, enters the Shaandaar Cafe.
_What happens when you win?_
_When your enemies are at your mercy: how will you act then?
Compromise is the temptation of the weak; this is the test for the
strong_. -- "Spoono," Gibreel nods at the fallen man. "You really fooled
me, mister; seriously, you're quite a guy." -- And Chamcha, seeing
what's in Gibreel's eyes, cannot deny the knowledge he sees there.
"Wha," he begins, and gives up. _What are you going to do?_ Fire is
falling all around them now: a sizzle of golden rain. "Why'd you do it?"
Gibreel asks, then dismisses the question with a wave of the hand.
"Damnfool thing to be asking. Might as well inquire, what possessed
you to rush in here? Damnfool thing to do. People, eh, Spoono? Crazy
bastards, that's all."
Now there are pools of fire all around them. Soon they will be encircled,
marooned in a temporary island amid this lethal sea. Chamcha is kicked
a second time in the chest, and jerks violently. Facing three deaths -- by
fire, by "natural causes", and by Gibreel -- he strains desperately, trying
to speak, but only croaks emerge. "Fa. Gur. Mmm." _Forgive me_. "Ha.
Pa." _Have pity_. The cafe tables are burning. More beams fall from
above. Gibreel seems to have fallen into a trance. He repeats, vaguely:
"Bloody damnfool things."
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Is it possible that evil is never total, that its victory, no matter how
overwhelming, is never absolute?
Consider this fallen man. He sought without remorse to shatter the
mind of a fellow human being; and exploited, to do so, an entirely
blameless woman, at least partly owing to his own impossible and
voyeuristic desire for her. Yet this same man has risked death, with
scarcely any hesitation, in a foolhardy rescue attempt.
What does this mean?
The fire has closed around the two men, and smoke is everywhere. It can
only be a matter of seconds before they are overcome. There are more
urgent questions to answer than the _damnfool_ ones above.
What choice will Farishta make?
Does he have a choice?
Gibreel lets fall his trumpet; stoops; frees Saladin from the prison of
the fallen beam; and lifts him in his arms. Chamcha, with broken ribs as
well as arms, groans feebly, sounding like the creationist Dumsday
before he got a new tongue of choicest rump. "Ta. La." _It's too late_. A
little lick of fire catches at the hem of his coat. Acrid black smoke fills
all available space, creeping behind his eyes, deafening his ears,
clogging his nose and lungs. -- Now, however, Gibreel Farishta begins
softly to exhale, a long, continuous exhalation of extraordinary
duration, and as his breath blows towards the door it slices through the
smoke and fire like a knife; -- and Saladin Chamcha, gasping and
fainting, with a mule inside his chest, seems to see -- but will ever
afterwards be unsure if it was truly so -- the fire parting before them
like the red sea it has become, and the smoke dividing also, like a
curtain or a veil; until there lies before them a clear pathway to the
door; -- whereupon Gibreel Farishta steps quickly forward, bearing
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Saladin along the path of forgiveness into the hot night air; so that on
a night when the city is at war, a night heavy with enmity and rage,
there is this small redeeming victory for love.
Conclusions.
Mishal Sufyan is outside the Shaandaar when they emerge, weeping for
her parents, being comforted by Hanif. -- It is Gibreel's turn to collapse;
still carrying Saladin, he passes out at Mishal's feet.
Now Mishal and Hanif are in an ambulance with the two unconscious
men, and while Chamcha has an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth
Gibreel, suffering nothing worse than exhaustion, is talking in his
sleep: a delirious babble about a magic trumpet and the fire that he
blew, like music, from its mouth. -- And Mishal, who remembers
Chamcha as a devil, and has come to accept the possibility of many
things, wonders: "Do you think -- ?" -- But Hanif is definite, firm. "Not
a chance. This is Gibreel Farishta, the actor, don't you recognize? Poor
guy's just playing out some movie scene." Mishal won't let it go. "But,
Hanif," -- and he becomes emphatic. Speaking gently, because she has
just been orphaned, after all, he absolutely insists. "What has happened
here in Brickhall tonight is a socio-political phenomenon. Let's not
fall into the trap of some damn mysticism. We're talking about history:
an event in the history of Britain. About the process of change."
At once Gibreel's voice changes, and his subject—matter also. He
mentions _pilgrims_, and a _dead baby_, and _like in "The Ten
Commandments",, and a _decaying mansion_, and a _tree_; because in
the aftermath of the purifying fire he is dreaming, for the very last time,
one of his serial dreams; -- and Hanif says: "Listen, Mishu, darling. Just
make-believe, that's all." He puts his arm around her, kisses her cheek,
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holding her fast. _Stay with me. The world is real. We have to live in it;
we have to live here, to live on_.
Just then Gibreel Farishta, still asleep, shouts at the top of his voice.
"Mishal! Come back! Nothing's happening! Mishal, for pity's sake;
turn around, come back, come back."
VIII. The Parting of the Arabian Sea
It had been the habit of Srinivas the toy merchant to threaten his wife
and children, from time to time, that one day, when the material world
had lost its savour, he would drop everything, including his name, and
turn sanyasi, wandering from village to village with a begging bowl and
a stick. Mrs. Srinivas treated these threats tolerantly, knowing that her
gelatinous and good-humoured husband liked to be thought of as a
devout man, but also a bit of an adventurer (had he not insisted on that
absurd and scarifying flight into the Grand Canyon in Amrika years
ago?); the idea of becoming a mendicant holy man satisfied both needs.
Yet, when she saw his ample posterior so comfortably ensconced in an
armchair on their front porch, looking out at the world through stout
wire netting, -- or when she watched him playing with their youngest
daughter, fiveyear-old Minoo, -- or when she observed that his appetite,
far from diminishing to begging-bowl proportions, was increasing
contentedly with the passing years -- then Mrs. Srinivas puckered up
her lips, adopted the insouciant expression of a film beauty (though she
was as plump and wobbling as her spouse) and went whistling indoors.
As a result, when she found his chair empty, with his glass of lime-juice
unfinished on one of its arms, it took her completely by surprise.
To tell the truth, Srinivas himself could never properly explain what
made him leave the comfort of his morning porch and stroll across to
495
watch the arrival of the villagers of Titlipur. The urchin boys who knew
everything an hour before it happened had been shouting in the street
about an improbable procession of people coming with bags and
baggage down the potato track towards the grand trunk road, led by a
girl with silver hair, with great exclamations of butterflies over their
heads, and, bringing up the rear, Mirza Saeed Akhtar in his olive--green
Mercedes--Benz station wagon, looking like a mango-stone had got
stuck in his throat.
For all its potato silos and famous toy factories, Chatnapatna was not
such a big place that the arrival of one hundred and fifty persons could
pass unnoticed. Just before the procession arrived Srinivas had received
a deputation from his factory workers, asking for permission to close
down operations for a couple of hours so that they could witness the
great event. Knowing they would probably take the time off anyway, he
agreed. But he himself remained, for a time, stubbornly planted on his
porch, trying to pretend, that the butterflies of excitement had not
begun to stir in his capacious stomach. Later, he would confide to
Mishal Akhtar: "It was a presentiment. What to say? I knew you-all were
not here for refreshments only. She had come for me."
Titlipur arrived in Chatnapatna in a consternation of howling babies,
shouting children, creaking oldsters, and sour jokes from the Osman of
the boom-boom bullock for whom Srinivas did not care one jot. Then
the urchins informed the toy king that among the travellers were the
wife and mother--in--law of the zamindar Mirza Saeed, and they were on
foot like the peasants, wearing simple kurta--pajamas and no jewels at
all. This was the point at which Srinivas lumbered over to the roadside
canteen around which the Titlipur pilgrims were crowding while potato
bhurta and parathas were handed round. He arrived at the same time as
the Chatnapatna police jeep. The Inspector was standing on the
passenger seat, shouting through a megaphone that he intended to take
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strong action against this "communal" march if it was not disbanded at
once. Hindu--Muslim business, Srinivas thought; bad, bad.
The police were treating the pilgrimage as some kind of sectarian
demonstration, but when Mirza Saeed Akhtar stepped forward and told
the Inspector the truth the officer became confused. Sri Srinivas, a
Brahmin, was obviously not a man who had ever considered making a
pilgrimage to Mecca, but he was impressed nevertheless. He pushed up
through the crowd to hear what the zamindar was saying: "And it is the
purpose of these good people to walk to the Arabian Sea, believing as
they do that the waters will part for them." Mirza Saeed's voice
sounded weak, and the Inspector, Chatnapatna's Station Head Officer,
was unconvinced. "Are you serious, ji?" Mirza Saeed said: "Not me.
They, but, are serious as hell. I'm planning to change their minds
before anything crazy happens." The SHO, all straps, moustachioes and
self-importance, shook his head. "But, see here, sir, how can I permit so
many individuals to congregate on the street? Tempers can be inflamed;
incident is possible." Just then the crowd of pilgrims parted and
Srinivas saw for the first time the fantastic figure of the girl dressed
entirely in butterflies, with snowy hair flowing down as far as her
ankles. "Arre deo," he shouted, "Ayesha, is it you?" And added,
foolishly: "Then where are my Family Planning dolls?"
His outburst was ignored; everybody was watching Ayesha as she
approached the puff-chested SHO. She said nothing, but smiled and
nodded, and the fellow seemed to grow twenty years younger, until in
the manner of a boy often or eleven he said, "Okay okay, mausi. Sorry,
ma. No offence. I beg your pardon, please." That was the end of the
police trouble. Later that day, in the afternoon heat, a group of town
youths known to have RSS and Vishwa Hindu Parishad connections
began throwing stones from nearby rooftops; whereupon the Station
Head Officer had them arrested and in jail in two minutes flat.
497
"Ayesha, daughter," Srinivas said aloud to the empty air, "what the hell
happened to you?"
During the heat of the day the pilgrims rested in whatever shade they
could find. Srinivas wandered among them in a kind of daze, filled up
with emotion, realizing that a great turning-- point in his life had
unaccountably arrived. His eyes kept searching out the transformed
figure of Ayesha the seer, who was resting in the shade of a pipal-tree in
the company of Mishal Akhtar, her mother Mrs. Qureishi, and the
lovesick Osman with his bullock. Eventually Srinivas bumped into the
zamindar Mirza Saeed, who was stretched out on the back seat of his
Mercedes-- Benz, unsleeping, a man in torment. Srinivas spoke to him
with a humbleness born of his wonderment. "Sethji, you don't believe
in the girl?"
"Srinivas," Mirza Saeed sat up to reply, "we are modern men. We know,
for instance, that old people die on long journeys, that God does not
cure cancer, and that oceans do not part. We have to stop this idiocy.
Come with me. Plenty of room in the car. Maybe you can help to talk
them out of it; that Ayesha, she's grateful to you, perhaps she'll listen."
"To come in the car?" Srinivas felt helpless, as though mighty hands
were gripping his limbs. "There is my business, but."
"This is a suicide mission for many of our people," Mirza Saeed urged
him. "I need help. Naturally I could pay."
"Money is no object," Srinivas retreated, affronted. "Excuse, please,
Sethji. I must consider."
"Don't you see?" Mirza Saeed shouted after him. "We are not
communal people, you and I. Hindu--Muslim bhai-bhai! We can open
up a secular front against this mumbo-jumbo."
498
Srinivas turned back. "But I am not an unbeliever," he protested. "The
picture of goddess Lakshmi is always on my wall."
"Wealth is an excellent goddess for a businessman," Mirza Saeed said.
"And in my heart," Srinivas added. Mirza Saeed lost his temper. "But
goddesses, I swear. Even your own philosophers admit that these are
abstract concepts only. Embodiments of shakti which is itself an
abstract notion: the dynamic power of the gods."
The toy merchant was looking down at Ayesha as she slept under her
quilt of butterflies. "I am no philosopher, Sethji," he said. And did not
say that his heart had leapt into his mouth because he had realized that
the sleeping girl and the goddess in the calendar on his factory wall had
the identical, same-to-same, face.
When the pilgrimage left town, Srinivas accompanied it, turning a deaf
ear to the entreaties of his wild-haired wife who picked up Minoo and
shook her in her husband's face. He explained to Ayesha that while he
did not wish to visit Mecca he had been seized by a longing to walk with
her a while, perhaps even as far as the sea.
As he took his place among the Titlipur villagers and fell into step with
the man next to him, he observed with a mixture of incomprehension
and awe that infinite butterfly swarm over their heads, like a gigantic
umbrella shading the pilgrims from the sun. It was as if the butterflies
of Titlipur had taken over the functions of the great tree. Next he gave
a little cry of fear, astonishment and pleasure, because a few dozen of
those chameleon-winged creatures had settled on his shoulders and
turned, upon the instant, the exact shade of scarlet of his shirt. Now he
recognized the man at his side as the Sarpanch, Muhammad Din, who
had chosen not to walk at the front. He and his wife Khadija strode
499
contentedly forward in spite of their advanced years, and when he saw
the lepidopteral blessing that had descended on the toy merchant,
Muhammad Din reached out and grasped him by the hand.
It was becoming clear that the rains would fail. Lines of bony cattle
migrated across the landscape, searching for a drink. _Love is Water_,
someone had written in whitewash on the brick wall of a scooter
factory. On the road they met other families heading south with their
lives bundled up on the backs of dying donkeys, and these, too, were
heading hopefully towards water. "But not bloody salt water," Mirza
Saeed shouted at the Titlipur pilgrims. "And not to see it divide itself
in two! They want to stay alive, but you crazies want to die." Vultures
herded together by the roadside and watched the pilgrims pass.
Mirza Saeed spent the first weeks of the pilgrimage to the Arabian Sea
in a state of permanent, hysterical agitation. Most of the walking was
done in the mornings and late afternoons, and at these times Saeed
would often leap out of his station wagon to plead with his dying wife.
"Come to your senses, Mishu. You're a sick woman. Come and lie down
at least, let me press your feet a while." But she refused, and her mother
shooed him away. "See, Saeed, you're in such a negative mood, it gets
depressing. Go and drink your Coke-shoke in your AC vehicle and leave
us yatris in peace." After the first week the Air Conditioned vehicle lost
its driver. Mirza Saeed's chauffeur resigned and joined the foot-
pilgrims; the zamindar was obliged to get behind the wheel himself.
After that, when his anxiety overcame him, it was necessary to stop the
car, park, and then rush madly back and forth among the pilgrims,
threatening, entreating, offering bribes. At least once a day he cursed
Ayesha to her face for ruining his life, but he could never keep up the
abuse because every time he looked at her he desired her so much that
he felt ashamed. The cancer had begun to turn Mishal's skin grey, and
Mrs. Qureishi, too, was beginning to fray at the edges; her society
500
chappals had disintegrated and she was suffering from frightful foot-
blisters that looked like little water--balloons. When Saeed offered her
the comfort of the car, however, she continued to refuse point-blank.
The spell that Ayesha had placed upon the pilgrims was still holding
firm. -- And at the end of these sorties into the heart of the pilgrimage
Mirza Saeed, sweating and giddy from the heat and his growing despair,
would realize that the marchers had left his car some way behind, and
he would have to totter back to it by himself, sunk in gloom. One day
he got back to the station wagon to find that an empty coconut-shell
thrown from the window of a passing bus had smashed his laminated
windscreen, which looked, now, like a spider's web full of diamond
flies. He had to knock all the pieces out, and the glass diamonds seemed
to be mocking him as they fell on to the road and into the car, they
seemed to speak of the transience and worthlessness of earthly
possessions, but a secular man lives in the world of things and Mirza
Saeed did not intend to be broken as easily as a windscreen. At night he
would go to lie beside his wife on a bedroll under the stars by the side
of the grand trunk road. When he told her about the accident she
offered him cold comfort. "It's a sign," she said. "Abandon the station
wagon and join the rest of us at last."
"Abandon a Mercedes-Benz?" Saeed yelped in genuine horror.
"So what?" Mishal replied in her grey, exhausted voice. "You keep
talking about ruination. Then what difference is a Mercedes going to
make?"
"You don't understand," Saeed wept. "Nobody understands me."
Gibreel dreamed a drought:
The land browned under the rainless skies. The corpses of buses and
ancient monuments rotting in the fields beside the crops. Mirza Saeed
saw, through his shattered windscreen, the onset of calamity: the wild
501
donkeys fucking wearily and dropping dead, while still conjoined, in
the middle of the road, the trees standing on roots exposed by soil
erosion and looking like huge wooden claws scrabbling for water in the
earth, the destitute farmers being obliged to work for the state as
manual labourers, digging a reservoir by the trunk road, an empty
container for the rain that wouldn't fall. Wretched roadside lives: a
woman with a bundle heading for a tent of stick and rag, a girl
condemned to scour, each day, this pot, this pan, in her patch of filthy
dust. "Are such lives really worth as much as ours?" Mirza Saeed Akhtar
asked himself. "As much as mine? As Mishal"s? How little they have
experienced, how little they have on which to feed the soul." A man in a
dhoti and loose yellow pugri stood like a bird on top of a milestone,
perched there with one foot on the opposite knee, one hand under the
opposite elbow, smoking a bin. As Mirza Saeed Akhtar passed him he
spat, and caught the zamindar full in the face.
The pilgrimage advanced slowly, three hours' walking in the mornings,
three more after the heat, walking at the pace of the slowest pilgrim,
subject to infinite delays, the sickness of children, the harassment of
the authorities, a wheel coming off one of the bullock carts; two miles a
day at best, one hundred and fifty miles to the sea, a journey of
approximately eleven weeks. The first death happened on the eighteenth
day. Khadija, the tactless old lady who had been for half a century the
contented and contenting spouse of Sarpanch Muhammad Din, saw an
archangel in a dream. "Gibreel," she whispered, "is it you?"
"No," the apparition replied. "It's I, Azraeel, the one with the lousy job.
Excuse the disappointment."
The next morning she continued with the pilgrimage, saying nothing to
her husband about her vision. After two hours they neared the ruin of
one of the Mughal milepost inns that had, in times long gone, been
built at five--mile intervals along the highway. When Khadija saw the
ruin she knew nothing of its past, of the wayfarers robbed in their sleep
502
and so on, but she understood its present well enough. "I have to go in
there and lie down," she said to the Sarpanch, who protested: "But, the
march!" "Never mind that," she said gently. "You can catch them up
later."
She lay down in the rubble of the old ruin with her head on a smooth
stone which the Sarpanch found for her. The old man wept, but that
didn't do any good, and she was dead within a minute. He ran back to
the march and confronted Ayesha angrily. "I should never have listened
to you," he told her. "And now you have killed my wife."
The march stopped. Mirza Saeed Akhtar, spotting an opportunity,
insisted loudly that Khadija be taken to a proper Muslim burial ground.
But Ayesha objected. "We are ordered by the archangel to go directly to
the sea, without returns or detours." Mirza Saeed appealed to the
pilgrims. "She is your Sarpanch's beloved wife," he shouted. "Will you
dump her in a hole by the side of the road?"
When the Titlipur villagers agreed that Khadija should be buried at
once, Saeed could not believe his ears. He realized that their
determination was even greater than he had suspected: even the
bereaved Sarpanch acquiesced. Khadija was buried in the corner of a
barren field behind the ruined way-station of the past.
The next day, however, Mirza Saeed noticed that the Sarpanch had come
unstuck from the pilgrimage, and was mooching along disconsolately, a
little distance apart from the rest, sniffing the bougainvillaea bushes.
Saeed jumped out of the Mercedes and rushed off to Ayesha, to make
another scene. "You monster!" he shouted. "Monster without a heart!
Why did you bring the old woman here to die?" She ignored him, but
on his way back to the station wagon the Sarpanch came over and said:
"We were poor people. We knew we could never hope to go to Mecca
Sharif, until she persuaded. She persuaded, and now see the outcome of
her deeds."
503
Ayesha the kahin asked to speak to the Sarpanch, but gave him not a
single word of consolation. "Harden your faith," she scolded him. "She
who dies on the great pilgrimage is assured of a home in Paradise. Your
wife is sitting now among the angels and the flowers; what is there for
you to regret?"
That evening the Sarpanch Muhammad Din approached Mirza Saeed as
he sat by a small campfire. "Excuse, Sethji," he said, "but is it possible
that I ride, as you once offered, in your motor--car?"
Unwilling wholly to abandon the project for which his wife had died,
unable to maintain any longer the absolute belief which the enterprise
required, Muhammad Din entered the station wagon of scepticism. "My
first convert," Mirza Saeed rejoiced.
By the fourth week the defection of Sarpanch Muhammad Din had
begun to have its effect. He sat on the back seat of the Mercedes as if he
were the zamindar and Mirza Saeed the chauffeur, and little by little the
leather upholstery and the airconditioning unit and the whisky-soda
cabinet and the electrically operated mirror-glass windows began to
teach him hauteur; his nose tilted into the air and he acquired the
supercilious expression of a man who can see without being seen. Mirza
Saeed in the driver's seat felt his eyes and nose filling up with the dust
that came in through the hole where the windscreen used to be, but in
spite of such discomforts he was feeling better than before. Now, at the
end of each day, a cluster of pilgrims would congregate around the
Mercedes-Benz with its gleaming star, and Mirza Saeed would try and
talk sense into them while they watched Sarpanch Muhammad Din raise
and lower the mirrorglass rear windows, so that they saw, alternately,
his features and their own. The Sarpanch's presence in the Mercedes
lent new authority to Mirza Saeed's words.
504
Ayesha didn't try to call the villagers away, and so far her confidence
had been justified; there had been no further defections to the camp of
the faithless. But Saeed saw her casting numerous glances in his
direction and whether she was a visionary or not Mirza Saeed would
have bet good money that those were the bad-tempered glances of a
young girl who was no longer sure of getting her own way.
Then she disappeared.
She went off during an afternoon siesta and did not reappear for a day
and a half, by which time there was pandemonium among the pilgrims -
- she always knew how to whip up an audience's feelings, Saeed
conceded; then she sauntered back up to them across the dust--clouded
landscape, and this time her silver hair was streaked with gold, and her
eyebrows, too, were golden. She summoned the villagers to her and told
them that the archangel was displeased that the people of Titlipur had
been filled up with doubts just because of the ascent of a martyr to
Paradise. She warned that he was seriously thinking of withdrawing his
offer to part the waters, "so that all you'll get at the Arabian Sea is a
salt--water bath, and then it's back to your deserted potato fields on
which no rain will ever fall again." The villagers were appalled. "No, it
can't be," they pleaded. "Bibiji, forgive us." It was the first time they
had used the name of the longago saint to describe the girl who was
leading them with an absolutism that had begun to frighten them as
much as it impressed. After her speech the Sarpanch and Mirza Saeed
were left alone in the station wagon. "Second round to the archangel,"
Mirza Saeed thought.
By the fifth week the health of most of the older pilgrims had
deteriorated sharply, food supplies were running low, water was hard to
find, and the children's tear ducts were dry. The vulture herds were
never far away.
505
As the pilgrims left behind the rural areas and came towards more
densely populated zones, the level of harassment increased. The long-
distance buses and trucks often refused to deviate and the pedestrians
had to leap, screaming and tumbling over each other, out of their way.
Cyclists, families of six on Rajdoot motor--scooters, petty shop — keepers
hurled abuse. "Crazies! Hicks! Muslims!" Often they were obliged to
keep marching for an entire night because the authorities in this or
that small town didn't want such riff-raff sleeping on their pavements.
More deaths became inevitable.
Then the bullock of the convert, Osman, fell to its knees amid the
bicycles and camel-dung of a nameless little town. "Get up, idiot," he
yelled at it impotently. "What do you think you're doing, dying on me
in front of the fruit--stalls of strangers?" The bullock nodded, twice for
yes, and expired.
Butterflies covered the corpse, adopting the colour of its grey hide, its
horn-cones and bells. The inconsolable Osman ran to Ayesha (who had
put on a dirty sari as a concession to urban prudery, even though
butterfly clouds still trailed off her like glory). "Do bullocks go to
Heaven?" he asked in a piteous voice; she shrugged. "Bullocks have no
souls," she said coolly, "and it is souls we march to save." Osman
looked at her and realized he no longer loved her. "You've become a
demon," he told her in disgust.
"I am nothing," Ayesha said. "I am a messenger."
"Then tell me why your God is so anxious to destroy the innocent,"
Osman raged. "What's he afraid of? Is he so unconfident that he needs
us to die to prove our love?"
As though in response to such blasphemy, Ayesha imposed even stricter
disciplinary measures, insisting that all pilgrims say all five prayers,
and decreeing that Fridays would be days of fasting. By the end of the
506
sixth week she had forced the marchers to leave four more bodies where
they fell: two old men, one old woman, and one six-year-old girl. The
pilgrims marched on, turning their backs on the dead; behind them,
however, Mirza Saeed Akhtar gathered up the bodies and made sure
they received a decent burial. In this he was assisted by the Sarpanch,
Muhammad Din, and the former untouchable, Osman. On such days
they would fall quite a way behind the march, but a Mercedes-Benz
station wagon doesn't take long to catch up with over a hundred and
forty men, women and children walking wearily towards the sea.
The dead grew in number, and the groups of unsettled pilgrims around
the Mercedes got larger night by night. Mirza Saeed began to tell them
stories. He told them about lemmings, and how the enchantress Circe
turned men into pigs; he told, too, the story of a pipe-player who lured
a town's children into a mountain-crack. When he had told this tale in
their own language he recited verses in English, so that they could
listen to the music of the poetry even though they didn't understand
the words. "Hamelin town's in Brunswick," he began. "Near famous
Hanover City. The River Weser, deep and wide, washes its walls on the
southern side . . ."
Now he had the satisfaction of seeing the girl Ayesha advance, looking
furious, while the butterflies glowed like the campfire behind her,
making it appear as though flames were streaming from her body.
"Those who listen to the Devil's verses, spoken in the Devil's tongue,"
she cried, "will go to the Devil in the end."
"It's a choice, then," Mirza Saeed answered her, "between the devil and
the deep blue sea."
507
Eight weeks had passed, and relations between Mirza Saeed and his wife
Mishal had so deteriorated that they were no longer on speaking terms.
By now, and in spite of the cancer that had turned her as grey as funeral
ash, Mishal had become Ayesha's chief lieutenant and most devoted
disciple. The doubts of other marchers had only strengthened her own
faith, and for these doubts she unequivocally blamed her husband.
"Also," she had rebuked him in their last conversation, "there is no
warmth in you any more. I feel afraid to approach."
"No warmth?" he yelled. "How can you say it? No warmth? For whom
did I come running on this damnfool pilgrimage? To look after whom?
Because I love whom? Because I am so worried about, so sad about, so
filled with misery about whom? No warmth? Are you a stranger? How
can you say such a thing?"
"Listen to yourself," she said in a voice which had begun to fade into a
kind of smokiness, an opacity. "Always anger. Cold anger, icy, like a
fort."
"This isn't anger," he bellowed. "This is anxiety, unhappiness,
wretchedness, injury, pain. Where can you hear anger?"
"I hear it," she said. "Everyone can hear, for miles around."
"Come with me," he begged her. "I'll take you to the top clinics in
Europe, Canada, the USA. Trust in Western technology. They can do
marvels. You always liked gadgets, too."
"I am going on a pilgrimage to Mecca," she said, and turned away.
"You damn .stupid bitch," he roared at her back. "Just because you're
going to die doesn't mean you have to take all these people with you."
But she walked away across the roadside camp--site, never looking back;
and now that he'd proved her point by losing control and speaking the
508
unspeakable he fell to his knees and wept. After that quarrel Mishal
refused to sleep beside him any more. She and her mother rolled out
their bedding next to the butterfly-shrouded prophetess of their
Meccan quest.
By day, Mishal worked ceaselessly among the pilgrims, reassuring them,
bolstering their faith, gathering them together beneath the wing of her
gentleness. Ayesha had started retreating deeper and deeper into
silence, and Mishal Akhtar became, to all intents and purposes, the
leader of the pilgrims. But there was one pilgrim over whom she lost her
grip: Mrs. Qureishi, her mother, the wife of the director of the state
bank.
The arrival of Mr. Qureishi, Mishal's father, was quite an event. The
pilgrims had stopped in the shade of a line of plane-trees and were busy
gathering brushwood and scouring cookpots when the motorcade was
sighted. At once Mrs. Qureishi, who was twenty-five pounds lighter
than she had been at the beginning of the walk, leaped squeakily to her
feet and tried frantically to brush the dirt off her clothes and to put her
hair in order. Mishal saw her mother fumbling feebly with a molten
lipstick and asked, "What's bugging you, ma? Relax, na."
Her mother pointed feebly at the approaching cars. Moments later the
tall, severe figure of the great banker was standing over them. "If I had
not seen it I would not have believed," he said. "They told me, but I
pooh-poohed. Therefore it took me this long to find out. To vanish
from Peristan without a word: now what in tarnation?"
Mrs. Qureishi shook helplessly under her husband's eyes, beginfling to
cry, feeling the calluses on her feet and the fatigue that had sunk into
every pore of her body. "O God, I don't know, I am sorry," she said.
"God knows what came over."
509
"Don't you know I occupy a delicate post?" Mr. Qureishi cried. "Public
confidence is of essence. How does it look then that my wife gallivants
with bhangis?"
Mishal, embracing her mother, told her father to stop bullying. Mr.
Akhtar saw for the first time that his daughter had the mark of death
on her forehead and deflated instantly like an inner tube. Mishal told
him about the cancer, and the promise of the seer Ayesha that a miracle
would occur in Mecca, and she would be completely cured.
"Then let me fly you to Mecca, pronto," her father pleaded. "Why walk
if you can go by Airbus?"
But Mishal was adamant. "You should go away," she told her father.
"Only the faithful can make this thing come about. Mummy will look
after me."
Mr. Qureishi in his limousine helplessly joined Mirza Saeed at the rear
of the procession, constantly sending one of the two servants who had
accompanied him on motor-scooters to ask Mishal if she would like
food, medicine, Thums Up, anything at all. Mishal turned down all his
offers, and after three days -- because banking is banking -- Mr.
Qureishi departed for the city, leaving behind one of the motor-scooter
chaprassis to serve the women. "He is yours to command," he told
them. "Don't be stupid now. Make this as easy as you can."
The day after Mr. Qureishi's departure, the chaprassi Gul Muhammad
ditched his scooter and joined the foot-pilgrims, knotting a
handkerchief around his head to indicate his devotion. Ayesha said
nothing, but when she saw the scooter-wallah join the pilgrimage she
grinned an impish grin that reminded Mirza Saeed that she was, after
all, not on"y a figure out of a dream, but also a flesh-and-blood young
girl.
510
Mrs. Qureishi began to complain. The brief contact with her old life
had broken her resolve, and now that it was too late she had started
thinking constantly about parties and soft cushions and glasses of iced
fresh lime soda. It suddenly seemed wholly unreasonable to her that a
person of her breeding should be asked to go barefoot like a common
sweeper. She presented herself to Mirza Saeed with a sheepish
expression on her face.
"Saeed, son, do you hate me completely?" she wheedled, her plump
features arranging themselves in a parody of coquettishness.
Saeed was appalled by her grimace. "Of course not," he managed to say.
"But you do, you loathe me, and my cause is hopeless," she flirted.
"Ammaji," Saeed gulped, "what are you saying?"
"Because I have from time to time spoken roughly to you."
"Please forget it," Saeed said, bemused by her performance, but she
would not. "You must know it was all for love, isn't it? Love," said Mrs.
Qureishi, "it is a many--splendoured thing."
"Makes the world go round," Mirza Saeed agreed, trying to enter into
the spirit of the conversation.
"Love conquers all," Mrs. Qureishi confirmed. "It has conquered my
anger. This I must demonstrate to you by riding with you in your
motor."
Mirza Saeed bowed. "It is yours, Ammaji."
"Then you will ask those two village men to sit in front with you. Ladies
must be protected, isn't it?"
"It is," he replied.
511
The story of the village that was walking to the sea had spread all over
the country, and in the ninth week the pilgrims were being pestered by
journalists, local politicos in search of votes, businessmen who offered
to sponsor the march if the yatris would only consent to wear sandwich
boards advertising various goods and services, foreign tourists looking
for the mysteries of the East, nostalgic Gandhians, and the kind of
human vultures who go to motor-car races to watch the crashes. When
they saw the host of chameleon butterflies and the way they both
clothed the girl Ayesha and provided her with her only solid food, these
visitors were amazed, and retreated with confounded expectations, that
is to say with a hole in their pictures of the world that they could not
paper over. Photographs of Ayesha were appearing in all the papers, and
the pilgrims even passed advertising hoardings on which the
lepidopteral beauty had been painted three times as large as life, beside
slogans reading _Our cloths also are as delicate as a butterfly's wing_,
or suchlike. Then more alarming news reached them. Certain religious
extremist groupings had issued statements denouncing the "Ayesha
Haj" as an attempt to "hijack" public attention and to "incite
communal sentiment". Leaflets were being distributed -- Mishal picked
them up off the road -- in which it was claimed that "Padyatra, or foot--
pilgrimage, is an ancient, pre--Islamic tradition of national culture, not
imported property of Mughal immigrants." Also: "Purloining of this
tradition by so — called Ayesha Bibiji is flagrant and deliberate
inflammation of already sensitive situation."
"There will be no trouble," the kahin broke her silence to announce.
Gibreel dreamed a suburb:
512
As the Ayesha Haj neared Sarang, the outermost suburb of the great
metropolis on the Arabian Sea towards which the visionary girl was
leading them, journalists, politicos and police officers redoubled their
visits. At first the policemen threatened to disband the march forcibly;
the politicians, however, advised that this would look very like a
sectarian act and could lead to outbreaks of communal violence from
top to bottom of the country. Eventually the police chiefs agreed to
permit the march, but groused menacingly about being "unable to
guarantee safe passages" for the pilgrims. Mishal Akhtar said: "We are
going